


Ancient Bonds

by sifshadowheart



Series: Bonds [2]
Category: Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter - Laurell K. Hamilton, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Harry Potter, Blood Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Gen, Harry has a potty mouth, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Magical Binding, Magical Tattoos, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Powerful Harry Potter, Pre-Slash, Slash, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:08:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 86,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23919460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sifshadowheart/pseuds/sifshadowheart
Summary: Harry stepped into the Veil in the Chamber of Death in the Department of Mysteries and steps out into a new - and strange - world in search of his godfather Sirius Black.But Harry should beware: the differences between the two worlds are more than skin deep and if he isn't careful even the most ancient bonds of blood and trust won't be enough to save him when someone in St. Louis starts slaughtering vampires for their power.A Harry Potter/Anita Blake Crossover
Relationships: Harry Potter/Rafael (Anita Blake), Jean-Claude (Anita Blake)/Harry Potter, Sirius Black & Harry Potter
Series: Bonds [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722766
Comments: 583
Kudos: 1800
Collections: Best Harry Potter Crossovers, Suggested Good Reads





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: For those of you who are familiar with the Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter timeline and series, this is technically before the events of Guilty Pleasures even though the year would put it at around Obsidian Butterfly or Narcissus in Chains...I think. I’m counting on fanfic, wiki, and my AB-fan friends to get me through so I might be entirely wrong. And as per usual, I’ll be putting my own twist and stamp on how things work and lore in the AB world.
> 
> Disclaimer: This story is a work of fanfiction. The characters of Harry Potter and the Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter franchises are the property of their authors/owners.
> 
> WARNING! This work contains the following: Alternate Universe, Non-Canon Events and Relationships, Slash M/M content and/or behavior, Mentioned/Referenced Mpreg, Mentioned/Referenced Polyamory, canon-typical violence and bloodshed (Anita Blake.)
> 
> I also don't want to spoil the relationships to come (though anyone who's on my FB or has read AB at least has an idea of where this might go) so relationships will be tagged now and throughout the series as they develop rather than from the start.

**Ancient Bonds**

**_A Harry Potter/Anita Blake Crossover_ **

_By Sif Shadowheart_

**Chapter One: Setting Up Shop**

_Stonehenge, England; August 1, 2000_

In the pre-dawn of Lughnasadh, there wasn’t a soul in sight to play witness as something hit the ground with an ignoble _whump_ in the center of one of the most famous ancient sites in the world.

As that whump was followed immediately by a spate of cursing that would make even a pirate sit up and take notice, it was safe to assume that the pile of there-but-not person and clothes would be rather glad about that when he got his clumsy behind up from the ground where he’d fallen and gotten himself all tangled up in his Invisibility Cloak.

If one asked Hari “Harry” - and _yes there was a difference_ \- James Potter, a bit of clumsiness was entirely justified after having a bevy of incorporeal _somethings_ digging through his brain and judging him heart and soul before tossing him out arse over teakettle out into the other side of the Veil.

That he truly _felt_ what he thought was his godchild/godparent bond with Sirius flare with life for a split-second before dying back down - it felt _strained_ but it was definitely there, Sirius might be a considerable distance away from what he’d learned about that particular bond - was all that kept him from _actually_ trying to figure out a way to open a new Veil there in the middle of…

Bloody hell they’d dropped him in Stonehenge.

_That_ was a bit too on-brand even for him, flying broomsticks and pointed hats aside.

Shaking his head and once more reining in his desire to _actually_ curse the beings in charge of soul processing - or whatever-the-fuck they did in the Veil - Harry rose to his feet and tucked his Cloak firmly about him.

Just because he recognized Stonehenge didn’t mean that anything _else_ in this new world or dimension or universe or whatever-it-was that the Veil could access would be the same and he’d pass quite fervently on being locked away in a muggle government lab somewhere or ending up chained to a throne as a pet magician or any of another dozen or so wild iterations his brain decided to pop up with on the fly.

Tasks.

Harry knew he worked best and thought cleanest - even with the Occlumency training - with tasks in front of him.

There were two - maybe three depending on how he thought about them - that he could think of straight away.

First: get to London, start getting an identity set up, and find a place to rest.

The Veil _really_ took it out of a bloke, especially the part where they ripped Tommy Boy’s horcrux right out of his _fucking head_.

Second: start tracking Sirius.

There.

Tasks set.

Now...how the bloody hell was he going to get to London.

And for that matter...what fucking _day_ was it?

…

The judges of the Veil - which was what Harry was going with since he didn’t have anything better to call them - apparently had a sense of humor, who knew?

Or maybe it was that they were literal in the extreme.

Harry was twenty for all intents and purposes so they’d kicked him out the other side of their domain at the proper year and time for him to _be_ twenty if he hadn’t abused the crap out of a time-turner for just under a year.

A quick _Tempus_ told him that he’d skipped ahead by his reckoning to the morning after what should have been his twentieth birthday, leaving him wondering if Sirius had been booted out of the Veil back in this world’s 1996 or 1999, whether a year had passed for Sirius or four years.

He didn’t bother pondering on the subject for long, one year or four he wouldn’t know until he found his godfather and to do that he needed to get himself sorted.

A bit of loitering near the village travel center allowed him to do some investigating via a lifted wallet and ducking into the nearest open shop’s restroom.

He flipped through the wallet quickly, scanning the contents and comparing in particular the identification and the pound notes to his own. A quick duplication spell on the identification card - since his own was significantly outdated and from before Harry went off to Hogwarts - and a change of the numbers to match his old ones plus the addition of his picture gave him something that should pass at least casual scrutiny until he could spell his way into one that would stand up to anything this world had to throw at it. The pound notes on the other hand were in the same style as those he already had on hand.

That at least was convenient and gave him hope - along with not immediately spotting any major differences between muggles from his world and this world - that this wasn’t so much as a world that had undergone a major divergence from his own. Or vice versa. As it was a world that had taken a bit of a step to the left instead.

He hoped anyway.

Shucking off his Cloak, he tucked it in the pocket of the dull black motorcycle jacket he rescued from Sirius’s closet since from what he could see there was nothing about a young man in a leather jacket, t-shirt, jeans, and boots with a rucksack that would ring a false note to the muggles around him. His athame and pocketknife were hidden as were his wands, the ring on his hand was plain, he was about as normal as he could be. Especially for southern England. Being desi wasn’t odd here, even paired with features and eyes that shouted his mixed heritage.

But that was just fine.

It had been hidden from even _him_ more than long enough, he wasn’t about to hide it now that there was no reason for it - even whatever bullshit reasoning Dumbledore had had in the first place.

If anything it was his scar that would draw attention as it always did even from strangers.

Which: fair enough.

He’d been sensitive about it for so long because _other people_ made a fuss over it.

For Harry it had been a part of him for as long as he could remember: healed silver-white scarring (now, anyway) on the upper-left quadrant of his face in a lightning/starburst pattern with the origin point centered over his left eyebrow and the scars spiraling/spinning out from there down onto his cheekbone, temple, forehead and up to his hairline.

It was a major identifying mark, the sort of thing that drew questions and curiosity long before he knew it as the curse scar it was and it became a symbol of a magical feat that both enchanted and repulsed everyone who saw it with rare exceptions.

Harry left the restroom, turning in the wallet as found on the street at the coffee-seller. Already there and feeling bubbly with excitement he bought himself a large hot chocolate and a chocolate scone from the coffee-seller near the bus stop, not necessarily _needing_ the boost to his magic that chocolate gave but in the mood for it anyway as he felt free. No expectations. No secrets, no prophecies. Just himself, his personal quest to find Sirius, and all the magic he could harness at his fingertips.

Buying a few copies of the newspapers on hand at the Amesbury bus station along with his ticket to the next-closest train terminal in Salisbury, Harry arched his brow as he read the headline on the first one, having decided to start with the _Times_ :

**_Bill of Life Ratified into Law in Thirteen Countries_ **

**_Some forms of Living Dead now granted same rights in the United Kingdom as Human Beings_ **

“Okay…” Harry drawled, blinking then he shook his head as he folded the papers back up when the bus arrived. He’d read the articles once he’d gotten settled. “Maybe things _are_ a bit more different than immediately apparent after all…”

It was a statement that became more and more true as Harry tore through first the _Times,_ then the _Independent,_ before finishing up with the more localised _Salisbury Journal_ by the time his train from Salisbury arrived in London’s Waterloo station.

Already kicking himself for making an assumption based on a few minutes’ worth of observation, he snapped up a copy of the free _Metro_ and added copies of the _New York Times_ , the _Washington Post_ , and several tabloids including the _Star_ and the _Daily Mail_ even though the international papers were rather expensive at the periodical stand.

To get a better idea of what he was dealing with in this strange new world that looked so much like the old one on the surface but was so different underneath, it was worth the expense as he sat at a table with a coffee and a sandwich as he made as much sense of things as he could from the papers.

Not the easiest thing in the world since all of them made an assumption of pre-existing knowledge but he still managed to pick up a few things regardless.

That the super- _er, correction_ \- _preternatural_ wasn’t in hiding was the major one.

The _Bill of Life_ that the papers were all discussing, or in the case of the ones from the States discussing new laws and bills that had come from it, meant that vampires were known and in the open and numerous enough for things like open acknowledgement without getting exterminated by fearful muggles.

So were animators and/or necromancers capble of _raising fucking zombies_ which was an act of Dark Arts in his old world that would have had the public shrieking for the witch or wizard’s head on a platter.

Lycanthropes were also alive and well and known about, though heavily discriminated against from what he could tell from his reading of current affairs.

Vampires were too, but for some reason - numbers or power maybe? - the laws were skewed from what he could tell in favor of vampires over other kinds of preternatural beings or people.

As if since they came first into the open they were reaping both the first fruits of coming out as well as facing the first wave of condemnation if the dross in the tabloids was any sign.

Setting the papers down, Harry sank back against his chair, deep in thought.

There wasn’t enough information about magic and magic users other than these _animators_ for him to make a decision on how open with his magic use he could or should be.

Right. He nodded mentally to himself, rising and gathering up his papers and rucksack. Moving over to the Underground entrance he bought himself a ticket to Paddington Station.

There was a hotel right in that station, and it was a major transition station.

His bond to Sirius hadn’t grown any stronger by arriving in London, wherever his godfather was it wasn’t anywhere close.

He’d have to travel again to find him if he was a betting man.

Having all the trains right at hand would only be to his benefit once he got a location on the Marauder.

And given that it was Lughnasadh, he knew just the ritual to find him.

…

Harry had to hand it to the receptionist at the hotel, she was a definite _professional_.

He’d known there was a hotel in Paddington Station, he hadn’t remembered it being a bloody _Hilton_ for Merlin’s sake!

Though he expected that dealing with tired travelers who chose the location likely for much of the same reasons as Harry: location, convenience, exhaustion, etc., she probably dealt with more than her fair share of travel-lagged pillocks so even someone who didn’t _quite_ look like he belonged in her establishment must be a nice change since he was polite even if he was wearing broken in leather and hand-me-down jeans.

At least they were Sirius’s hand-me-downs from when his godfather was a teenager, rather than Dudley’s that would’ve fit three of Harry inside them.

Harry would take old enough to be vintage over worn-by-a-whale any day.

“Welcome to the Hilton, Mister Potter.” The woman smiled at him with her brightest company smile. Young and a bit rough he might be but he paid in cash, had a valid id, and was quite handsome despite the scar on his face. “Here is your room key, you’re on the third floor, take the lifts here,” she gestured, “and your room will be down the hall on the right.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Harry smiled back, then let his eyes flicker over to one of the amenities noted on the informational placard. “Where would I find the Business Lounge? I need to check in before I give in to jetlag.”

She chuckled obligingly, then told him the lounge with computers and internet - free of charge to guests, of course - were on the second floor.

That’d work.

Harry might not have much of any experience at all with computers outside of what he’d learned piecemeal from internet cafes when there was a friendly worker to help him, but he knew _enough_ to do a basic search and research.

This world was stranger than it’d seemed at first glance.

He needed to know more before he found himself sent to prison for breaking some muggle law that in his old world never would’ve existed because of the Statute of Secrecy.

And research he did, hitting the business lounge after a quick wash in the room’s loo and a fresh pair of clothes, plus a Pepper-Up to handle the travel-lag from changing worlds or dimensions.

He’d been up all day and night now, after all, and still had longer to go before sundown when he could perform his seeking ritual in the comfort of his hotel room.

So long, that was, as there wasn’t something like the Trace or the Ministry of Magic in his new world.

He’d rather pass on getting slapped with a fine or jailed because he performed magic in a muggle area - and it was definitely that. Other than Stonehenge, he’d not felt a drop of magic around him since landing in this place. He needed to know what he was dealing with and he needed to know it now.

His muggle money was also dwindling fast, he also needed to start selling off some of his precious metals to replenish his supply unless being forced to depend on spellwork for everything appealed to him.

Which it didn’t.

Don’t get him wrong, he’d use spells and charms if he had no other choice.

But he brought the gold with him specifically to _avoid_ what amounted to stealing from hapless muggles who had no defense against his magic, so he didn’t want to get lax and lazy and use them because it was _easier_ that way.

Harry found himself having to create an email address to get access to some of the sites that popped up on his search but it was worth fumbling and lying his way through it for what he found regarding what this world knew about magic.

He ended up with two main takeaways by the time his wand vibrated silently against his arm in warning for dusk nearing.

First: either the Wizarding World didn’t _exist_ in this world or they’d gone _way_ underground and totally locked themselves away from the muggle world.

And second: While the muggle world knew _of_ some magic it wasn’t anything like _his_ magic. It wasn’t wanded. It wasn’t natural or easy. And every last bit of it was based on rituals of one kind or another to harness what the user didn’t have in their heart and soul and blood.

Animation was a combination of blood and death and soul magic using ritual sacrifice.

So was vaudun.

Wiccans tried to harness natural magics of the earth, psychics might have some minor inborn talent but it was nothing like an actual Seer.

It was all very strange to him, as strange as having vampires out in the open and legal citizens of the muggle world.

But maybe that was the point of this world.

Magical humans weren’t the most powerful people here. From what he could tell, vampires were. Magic had taken a step to the left, that was for certain.

Still, given that for the most part the world was trucking along in relative peace, he couldn’t say it wasn’t a terrible change or an amazing one for that matter.

Just different.

Well, Harry knew all about being different from everyone else, he’d lived his entire life that he could remember that way.

He’d adjust.

For the moment, he had an errant Padfoot to track down and no magical governing body to worry about.

Now _that_ was what he called freedom.

…

Harry dug through his rucksack back in his room, pulling out what he’d need for the tracking ritual.

With Harry’s proclivity for blood magic and having both an existing bond and a blood-tie to Sirius, there wasn’t much he needed but there were a few tools that would make his life easier than blindly shoving power down the bond and using it like a homing beacon - which was problematic with as muffled the bond was from what Harry was assuming to be a great distance.

Together with a map of the world he’d purchased from a shop that included major cities, he needed some candles, his athame, and the correct spell from the Black Library.

He was glad of his own foresight to say the least, as he’d left the book with the tracking spell he wanted to use on the top of the pile of book trunks since otherwise he might be there _for days_ digging through all of them for the right one and he would’ve kissed his window to use the power of the high day goodbye.

Laying the map flat on the hotel room’s desk, he set the candles on the cardinal points then lit them with a thought. He’d never get tired of that. Binding fire as his to call was the best decision he’d ever made, short of breaking free of Dumbledore to begin with.

Beginning the chant as the sun set, Harry picked up the athame and pricked a small hole in the meat of his palm on the outside where it wouldn’t bother him until he could heal it later.

Rich drops of ruby red steadily hit and pooled on the center of the world map, Harry immediately lifting his hand away once it began to twist and move in place as if it was coming alive as it pulled on his magic and tried to follow the bond to the other end of it.

Absently pulling his hand to his mouth as he pressed his tongue to the shallow wound to soothe it, he watched avidly as it began circling the map in wide circles that became tighter and tighter as the magic focused and did its job.

As it found Sirius.

The blood moved left of center, over the Western Hemisphere, then quickly narrowed in on the States, then fell inert just over right - or east in this case - of the middle of the country.

Leaning forward, Harry tilted his head a bit as he read the city name attached and partially hidden by the ring of blood surrounding a city marker.

_St. Louis_.

Sirius was at this very moment in the city of St. Louis, in the United States, more than six thousand - give or take - kilometres away on the literal _other side of the globe._

Well then, no wonder their bond was muffled.

Now Harry _really_ had to get his identity in order for this world unless he wanted to _Imperio_ himself through airport security on both ends as well as onto the plane.

His godfather was so close and yet so far away.

Times like these he wished that international portkeys were a thing since he had the power but not the training to Apparate a distance like that.

Would certainly make things faster.

But he’d waited years to see Sirius again, the few days it should take him to get everything straightened out is a much milder price to pay than the work and cost he’s already put in for them to be reunited.

He could wait.

That didn’t mean he was happy about it.

…

Alright, so maybe Harry had underestimated how long it would take him to set up his identity but in his defense, he’d never had to worry about this sort of thing before.

To that end, after a couple of days of futility trying to figure out a way to create a digital footprint for himself or legal records that would come up if ever anyone searched for him, he went with what had worked well enough when he first arrived: borrowing documents from unsuspecting muggles, copying them with a charm, and then either putting them back or turning them in as lost to the nearest business.

It wasn’t legal, it wasn’t ethical, but fuck it.

Laws don’t exactly cover what to do when your mysterious archway of doom spat you out into a strange world so at this point all Harry cared about was surviving.

When he had his ill-gotten documentation - birth certificate, passport, and a better UK identification card than the original he’d rushed on - he started altering the numbers and codes on them to match up against each other and replaced information such as his parents’ names and addresses, his address, and his picture to match him and his personal history.

And to his shock when he went in person to Heathrow to buy a plane ticket in cash to Switzerland - since their confidentiality laws were the best he could find anywhere according to his research - _it worked_.

Everything matched, he didn’t set off any alarms thanks to secrecy, security, and notice-me-not charms on his wands and knives, and even his rucksack passed through the x-ray inspection using its “muggle-worthy” setting without so much as a whimper.

And, to be honest, watching the jaw literally _drop_ on the snooty banker who only agreed to see him after he flashed _actual gold_ in the lobby of the private bank in Geneva he’d located after a few mental scans of the people in the Swiss city, made his day.

He also found out that phrases like _“it’s highly irregular…”_ tended to be stopped with the presentation of a bar of pure gold bullion, so there was that.

Hari James Potter was the proud owner of a numbered Swiss bank account, a stack of traveler’s checks, and a debit card linked to the account that didn’t have a limit though would require an authorization call for any purchase over a half million dollars.

Somehow, he figured this was a _little different_ than Sirius’s first week in their new home, but at least after working with Fangorn for a year Harry wasn’t too touchy about being sneered at by bankers.

That they were more than happy to take his gold and the majority of his silver and invest it after tallying the exchange rate for him to francs, was beside the point.

Bankers were bankers.

As long as they kept up their end of the deal and invested his money wisely they wouldn’t have a problem.

…

Harry used his new account the next day to purchase a home on the outskirts of St. Louis sight-unseen using a direct bank transfer, and the bubbly - if shocked - realtor in Missouri was more than happy to give him a reference for a handyman who could handle a few minor problems the property had.

A series of emails later, and a purchase of a one-way ticket to St. Louis, and Harry was ready to set up shop in a new base.

And then start the hunt for his godfather in truth.

…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There has been some confusion about one of the broken bindings (and it's not a plot point that's going to get mentioned for at least another chapter or two, if then) so I thought I would explain it here.
> 
> Misra is a surname from India, specifically Hindi and comes from Mishra. It's taken to mean from my quick go at researching it "mixed, mingled, honorable" in Sanskirt.
> 
> Harry gets this heritage from his dad and it's the reason he both has thick and curly black hair but also his darker skin than in movie-canon and can speak Parseltongue.
> 
> If anyone is interested, Hari is also from Sanskirt and directly means "brown, yellow, tawny" but is most often used by extensions as "monkey, horse, lion." I think you all can assume which I mean for our Gryffindor :D

**Ancient Bonds**

**Chapter Two: Waiting Game**

Harry winced as he stepped out of the air-conditioned terminal of the St. Louis international airport and out into what he would generously describe as the fifth circle of hell.

If, that was, that the fifth circle of hell was made of scorching heat and high humidity to the point that he felt like he was breathing soup and he could actually _feel_ the sweat pebbling on his skin and making his clothes stick to him instead of wrath.

One could, however, make a point that the weather contained a rather wrathful element from the perspective of a UK born-and-bred wizard.

He was glad that his wand sheathes on his forearm and calf had automatic cleaning and comfort charms because the mere _idea_ of having leather on his skin at the moment made him want to shudder at the thought of the chafing that would result.

Flicking a glance at the muggles moving around him - with a few from the way they moved having thoughts of lycanthropes flit through his mind, being rather familiar with the way Remus would move with a predatory grace near and on the full moon - he debated using a cooling charm but as there was a queue of waiting taxis who were sure to have at least fans if not working A/C, he decided against it.

Lesson learned.

He’d done a bit of research about the area and learned a few things from his emails with his handyman - who turned out to be less of a handyman and more of a hands-on owner of a construction company but whatever worked - but reading or even being _told_ about what St. Louis was like in August wasn’t a patch on the reality of it.

Even Harry who wasn’t a fan of being in short sleeves or shirtless because of the telling nature of his tattoos and scars would likely have to cave to the inevitable unless he wanted to draw questions about running around in long-sleeves when the temperature had more in common with steaming split-pea soup than it did an actual forecast.

There were always glamours and notice-me-nots but Harry didn’t really care to bother with them day-in-day out even if he would cave to pragmatism when necessary.

Picking the newest looking taxi, Harry gave the driver the address for his new house/base of operations before climbing inside, waving off the driver’s warning of how expensive the fare would be as apparently his home was quite a trip from the airport with traffic.

His bank in Switzerland had been _kind_ enough for a customer of his apparent affluence (thank you paranoid arsehole Blacks and generations of Potters!) to provide him with a thick stack of American muggle money, even changing over his remaining pounds and euros to dollars.

Covering the fare for a cab - and _ahhh sweet bliss of air conditioning_ \- was hardly a problem.

Though given his ongoing love of Sirius’s teenage wardrobe mixed with what he thought were Remus’s sweaters and the ones Mrs. Weasley used to knit for him, he kinda understood where the cab driver, much like the banker, was coming from.

He didn’t _look_ like he had the kind of money to burn that he did.

Not unlike how he also didn’t look like a blood mage or a wizard willing to kickass and take names if it meant reuniting with the only family he had left in two worlds.

Grimacing as his too-long hair that he’d been too lazy to get trimmed lately started to plaster to the back of his neck in the sudden change from heat-heat-humidity to the cooler environs of the taxi’s back seat, Harry gathered it up in his hands and slapped together a stubby tail with an innocuous personal care charm as the cab pulled away from the airport’s curb.

“First time in St. Louis?” The driver asked with that inherent curiosity most of their profession used to put their clients at ease. Though in his case it wasn’t entirely innocent as like many of the “invisible working class” that most people didn’t give a second thought to even if they _were_ one themselves, there was a steady side-hustle to be worked hand-in-hand with his dayjob in providing information to any of the elements in the city that would pay for news about interesting arrivals and departures from the city or other comings or goings.

And anyone who looked like his current fare combined with the ring on his hand and the quality of his boots, jacket, and bag - despite being worn-in all of them were expensive pieces meant to last for years and years - was the sort of fare that someone in the Riverfront District would want to know about even if all he was was a casual traveler.

But given that the address the guy had given him was in a part of the city that rode the edge between uppity-land estates and parcels of stubbornly-upwardly mobile developments the driver highly doubted that the fare was just a traveler.

“First time out of the U.K., actually.” Harry smiled politely at the driver before turning to study the city out of the backseat window. “Interesting mix of buildings you have here.” He commented in a gap between the driver’s “helpful” patter pointing out various landmarks or places of interest.

“Yeah, we have that.” The driver chuckled a bit, shooting a cautious glance at this fare but not seeing anything _off_ about him. “Little bit of everything to be found in St. Louis.”

“Here’s hoping.” Harry murmured - though after so much time alone, not _quite_ quietly enough to go unheard by the sharp ears of a part-time informant.

“Here on business or vacationing?”

“Family.” Harry answered after a split-second debate but not seeing any harm. His instincts were saying that the driver wasn’t malicious and even if he was - what would he be able to _do_ with that information? By this time tomorrow if the work at his new place was on schedule Harry would have at least the bones of his wards up and any problems that might arise from giving the driver a tidbit of information would be gone.

It wasn’t like he planned to _hide_ who Sirius was to him.

And anyone who thought to use one of them against the other - if such a person even _existed_ in this new world that didn’t have Voldemort and his sycophants - would learn _sharpish_ that that was about the worst idea they could have in any world.

The driver gave an interested: _“oh?”_ and Harry decided to give just a bit more, making it worth whatever ears the news would reach for whatever reason.

For the comfort of the ride and the ease with which the driver navigated the American traffic if nothing else, Harry thought it made a decent tip.

“Last of it ended up out here a while back and fell out of touch. Now that I’m done with school, I thought it was time to try and reconnect.”

Thankfully the driver took that as his cue to start up again with his two-knut tour on the way out to Harry’s address, pointing out a few places that were in his opinion “family friendly” likely going off the assumption that Harry was here for a sibling given his age and the bit about being done with school.

A couple of them Harry even made mental note of, as they came with assurances of _best coffee in town, decent meals but excellent cake,_ and so on.

“Here we go,” the driver turned onto an arterial street with traffic moving pretty freely and - for the most part - newer cars than Harry’d seen in other parts of the city they’d driven through. “This’ll be your closest shopping district, lots of these in the various neighborhoods with a family general type store, gas station, a couple options for food, dry cleaner, laundromat,” the driver pointed out several as he tooled down the street then turned onto a quieter lane that brought them down about a half-kilometer by Harry’s reckoning of turn-offs and side-streets speckled with nicer housing developments. Eventually those gave way to private lanes and ever-lessening traffic until they were the only car on the road at all.

A final turn-off that led to a Y-split with a private drive that boasted a modest wooden sign bordered by brick reading _Orchard Hills_ on the right and the private gated drive to Harry’s new house on the left. According to the deed, there was a greenbelt between the two: his house and the HOA for the development, but it technically belonged to the county. That was just fine with him as he eyed the lush band of trees riding what he thought was the southern boundary of his property.

Less said about nosy neighbors the better.

The gate was open, since Harry hadn’t known _when_ exactly he’d arrive and told the construction supervisor as much.

Though he was pleased to see that already the ramshackle wooden split-rail fencing the steel gate with its simple-but-strong design was attached to that he’d noted in the pictures and property description had already been torn down and at least the first part of the stacked-stone fence was complete.

Or maybe just done altogether as the taxi coasted down the freshly-paved drive passed the concealing trees and shrubberies to the circular dead-end with what Harry thought might be an old oak tree in the center of the ring and not anywhere did Harry see any workmen or places where the stone wasn’t neatly stacked.

There was still the rear of the property, but so far Harry was beyond pleased with the speed the construction company had managed to sort things out - the smooth drive being case-in-point.

Handing over the fare plus a decent tip - but not extravagant, Harry considering the information he’d let the man harvest as enough of an extra already - Harry nodded to the driver and climbed out of the taxi and into his new life.

…

According to the deed, property description, and the pictures that had been attached to the realty advertisement, Harry’s new home was a “Craftsman bungalow built in 1924 on a three-point-two acre lot, renovations completed in June 2000.”

What Harry saw was a lot of neglected land: a lawn crisped and browned from infrequent watering, rose bushes and wisteria that _hadn’t_ been neglected probably at the realtor’s insistence that climbed up the - honestly lovely - shade of almost-cream yellow wooden siding and the bright white of the porch railing and exterior trim.

Three dormers jutted out of the second story - the middle a bit wider than those flanking it - and were an interesting contrast to the blue-slate roof that had been a canny if expensive choice on the company that had bought the run-down property and done the renovations before flipping it.

To the left of the white wooden front door that had a large pane of glass in the center of it was the graceful angles of a bay window - and one of the reasons he’d bought this house and not some of the others in a price range he’d be willing to pay without knowing for _certain_ that Sirius lived in St. Louis and wasn’t just visiting.

The wood of the porch was freshly sealed and gleaming, and before Harry could put a booted foot on the front step the front door that was giving his inner paranoia hives - and would until he completed his wards - opened and Harry promptly lost all brain activity as a good portion of his blood suddenly rushed below his belt and he struggled to keep his tongue from falling out of his mouth in sheer visceral lust.

 _Holy shit. They don’t make them like_ that _in the Wizarding World…_

…

Rafael Reyes, Rom of the Dark Crown Rodere, king, alpha, and leader of St. Louis’s wererat population and owner of Crown Construction, had thought he knew what to expect of his company’s most recent employer.

He’d been given a head’s up from Heidi, one of the Thronnos Rokke werewolves, who worked as a realtor in her dayjob that the house he’d been trying to flip had sold in a rush. With the Rodere lawyer handling the legalities, he wouldn’t have known until the check hit his account, so he appreciated the notice. What he hadn’t expected was that the buyer not only had paid in cash from an overseas account - the sort of thing that _always_ pinged his instincts - but that they wanted more work done before they arrived to move in and had given them Rafael’s information.

Living in a time of history that wasn’t quite sure whether it wanted to crucify the preternatural or glorify it and somehow managing to do both in the court of public opinion often at the same time, lycanthropes at least tried to look out for each other if they weren’t total assholes.

Rafael wouldn’t touch the Thronnos Rokke Lupa with a ten-foot pole or piss on her most loyal wolves if they were on fire, but not _all_ of the Pack were sadists or batshit insane. The Ulfric, Marcus, was actually decent for his type - the sort of cunning bastard that planned ten steps ahead and was as likely to slit a throat to make a point as he was to protect his Pack - but his Lupa was poison. Since digging up a few of the Lupa’s more _distasteful_ habits, Rafael had quietly offered what support he could to her most vulnerable pack members while openly forbidding his rats from interacting with the Pack in any way.

For ones like Heidi that wanted to leave the Pack and St. Louis, that meant running any houses or property Rafael finished through her hands so she could bank the realtor’s percentage.

In turn, Heidi gave out his company’s name to anyone needing work done and told him what she could of gossip and whispers from the Pack.

It was a good deal and he’d be sad to see her leave but he completely understood _why_.

That Marcus couldn’t see what his Lupa was doing to his Pack and to his and the Pack’s reputation boggled Rafael’s mind but at the end of the day, batshit insane she-wolves weren’t Rafael’s problem unless or until they attacked one of his own or made a move against the Rodere.

And the Rodere had _plenty_ of their own issues without taking on the Pack’s too.

Based on the work that the buyer of the Craftsman wanted done and how they’d gone about the purchase and the lightning-speed closing - it took _a lot_ of money to purchase and close on a house in less than a week especially from overseas - Rafael thought he knew what to expect.

They’d paid an exorbitant amount for uncut/polished obsidian that had been delivered by the truckload including some massive boulders for the new fencing, with the boulders just stacked by the outbuilding that Rafael hadn’t done more than make reasonably safe with all his focus on the house itself.

They’d had the drive paved instead of the gravel that Rafael had put down, and wanted the interior of the house cleaned from top-to-bottom which Rafael had outsourced to another Rodere business.

He’d been expecting money, the sort of old-world old-school flash and cash that made him think vampire even though there hadn’t been anything done to the basement that ran the entire footprint of the house.

Sure, this _Hari Potter_ guy had been polite on the phone and over email, but he’d also been exacting.

That he’d been shifty about when he’d arrive hadn’t helped matters and there wasn’t any rumors of the Master of the City expecting visitors.

Rafael had expected the new owner of one of his more recent projects to be Trouble.

What he _hadn’t_ expected was for that trouble to walk right up under the hot and bright August sun and completely _shatter_ his expectations to smithereens.

He was smaller than Rafael by a good amount, at least a head if he had to guess though that was a bit tricky until _Hari_ shook off his own surprise at the sight of Rafael - and he held in a smirk because his enhanced sense of smell _clearly_ caught what kind of surprise it’d been for him - and stepped up onto the porch with him and came about eye level with Rafael’s collarbone. His skin was bronzed, not the same brown as Rafael’s, making him guess at either Indian or Middle Eastern descent. It made the scar on his face stand out even more in a silvery spiderweb starting over his left eyebrow and spreading over most of the upper-left side of his face.

But it wasn’t disfiguring like someone might think if they weren’t seeing it in person.

If anything, it was what kept Hari from tipping over the side of handsome into _too pretty for a guy_ with his straight nose, strong jaw and cheekbones, and wide, full mouth.

And those _eyes_.

Those eyes were killer and being a wererat Rafael had seen his share of pretty people, especially among the vampires that he sometimes thought were chosen for their human looks alone.

A true, bright, deep green, Rafael hated to be a cliche but they looked like emeralds and like the man’s scar shone even brighter for the darkness of his skin.

That his height was below-average for a man if only by a couple inches, and his build was on the slender side of built, like a runner with muscle that Rafael could make out under comfortable, lived-in clothes, didn’t help the impression of the stranger being too pretty for a guy - or his own good.

His hair was thick, black, and pulled into a messy stub of a tail that it threatened to escape thanks to the humidity frizzing out even a hint of curl in most people’s hair including Rafael’s own short cropped curls.

Then he spoke as he moved and Rafael almost groaned as he tried to get his libido under control as his inner animal got a good scenting of him and _wanted_ and the man liked the voice that went with the scent.

He smelled like nothing Rafael had ever run into before - and that _was_ something worth taking note of.

Certainly not a white-bread human.

Which that? That made things _interesting_ and not as hazardous as they might’ve been otherwise.

Also explained the weird-ass choice of building material for the rock wall, but whatever the stranger was willing to pay for it was his business.

…

It took Harry a second to shove his hormones into a dark corner at the sight in front of him but he thought it was understandable.

Over six feet of delicious male with darkly tanned skin, short black curls, strong muscles and a very handsome face with warm brown eyes?

Put a fork in him, he’s done.

There was a bit of a cockiness to the face that helped Harry get his lust in line, the sort of thing that he was used to seeing in the likes of Draco Malfoy - when he wasn’t being a total asshole - or more frequently Cedric Diggory before he died or even Sirius. The sort of natural and acquired arrogance that went hand-in-hand with people who’d been attractive all their lives. That didn’t have to go through an ugly duckling period or suffer from insecurities regarding their appearance.

It wasn’t off-putting but it _was_ grounding and Harry apparently needed that at the moment, though he noticed that Mr. Handsome with his dusty jeans, work boots, and open short-sleeved blue work-shirt over a thin white tank top was taking a good look of his own and seemed to like what he saw.

And wasn’t wearing a wedding ring or had a tan line from one being worn and then taken off for work.

_Down boy, you don’t even know him, he could be an axe-murderer._

Or worse: another Malfoy in personality if not looks.

He also had a godfather to find, which should come before attempts to shag a lovely bit of muscly goodness.

If said bit of muscly goodness was even into that sort of thing.

“Hello,” Harry stepped up onto the porch, quickly tiring of having to look so far _up_ at the handsome welcoming committee. “Are you Mr. Reyes?”

Mr. Handsome-maybe-Reyes swallowed, licking at sculpted (and a bit pouty honestly _how_ is that fair) lips to wet them before offering his hand.

“Rafael Reyes, you must be Mr. Potter.”

Harry shook a hand that was rather warm against his own, offering: “Just Harry, thanks.”

Rafael filed that away, combined with the accent he was probably British-born and used to the Anglicized version of his name. He’d have to remember that.

“And I’m Rafael,” he nodded in agreement at the implied offer to set aside formalities, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the key ring Heidi had returned to him once he’d been hired for the work at the property. Handing it over, he stepped back and waved for Harry to proceed him into the house. And it had nothing _at all_ with wanting to see how those broken in jeans might be clinging to Harry’s ass. Not at _all._ “Welcome home, Harry.”

“Thank you, Rafael,” hiding a smirk as those dark eyes weren’t being very discreet about their appreciation. 

And not as shy about how others reacted to him after his spate of running through various London nightclubs and going home with a partner or two (or on one _very_ memorable occasion two couples that apparently had some sort of swapping arrangement) if he was in the mood for it. One thing was certain, his dad might have been an arrogant prat as a teenager but after Harry’s own experience with how easy it was to pull with their shared looks, it wasn’t hard to figure out how he got that way on top of being spoiled. And rich. There was a lot there behind his dad’s behavior not that it excused it and Harry tried to be conscious of it.

Taking the keys from Rafael had a sense of terrible _rightness_ to it.

Harry stepped forward, moving the door further open from where it had swung a bit closed behind Rafael’s exit, and into a decent sized foyer.

All the walls were a plain, new bright white that he’d requested and he could change with a simple charm.

The original hardwood floors gleamed with a fresh coat of natural beeswax polish in white oak.

He smiled, warmth tingling down his spine even without the wards he’d use to protect his new home, feeling _truly_ at home for the first time in his life outside of Hogwarts.

To the left and right sides of the foyer were white-framed french doors leading to the den and kitchen respectively, while in front of him was a long hallway that ran from the front door to the french doors leading out to the sundeck. A hall closet was just beyond the kitchen entry, with the stairs leading down just beyond that on the left. Forming a bit of a zigzag or U-shape were the ascending stairs to the immediate right of the downward stairs, neither of which were blocked off or enclosed but open with railings that were new and chosen to match the floors. Across from the stairs was the downstairs bathroom, sharing its rear wall with the hall closet, and then the downstairs bloomed open before him.

A great family room with a fireplace larger than the one in the den with it’s bay window ran two-thirds of the width of the house in the back, connecting to the dining room that ran the length of the house forming an L-shape with the two open rooms around the bathroom/closet between them.

All that separated the dining room from the kitchen was a long counter top with bar stools already set up and in place, with a long but shallow pantry sharing a wall with the bathroom/hall and french doors.

Harry walked back through the french doors to meet up with Rafael who’d been patient, reading him well on first meeting and allowing him to take his first look of his home alone.

The kitchen was a good quarter of the downstairs with more wooden floors and white paint, the appliances also new including a gas range in stainless steel, and he noticed that Rafael and his crew had already swapped out the chrome/steel hardware in the house for the oiled bronze he preferred, including the curtain rods with their simple round ends that had more plain white contents for him to color charm.

“Yesterday I had the crew inside,” Rafael started to explain everything they’d done when Harry rejoined him and glanced at the curtains. “Assembling the furniture you’d had delivered, swapping out hardware and lighting fixtures, hanging the window treatments, everything inside is where and how you wanted it.”

“Your crew works fast.” Harry couldn’t help but be impressed since he could tell that not a whit of magic had been used in the doing. Impressive, especially with all the little changes he’d wanted in addition to the bigger projects like the drive and boundary wall. “I’ll have to give you a bonus, this is better than I expected.”

It was still pretty empty, just a few overstuffed chairs in the den, a U-shaped couch in the family room in front of the fireplace, bar stools in the kitchen, dark cherry dining set.

When they ventured upstairs, it was equally sparse as Harry set his pack down in the master bedroom that only held a dark cherry four-poster king bed with a bare mattress set, flanking side-tables and dresser.

None of the other rooms had furnishings upstairs, though he made a mental note of which of the rooms he wanted to turn into a library with a liberal application of expansion charms.

He’d have to buy a bookcase he could duplicate to fill it, it wouldn’t do for someone to ask questions about why one of the rooms in his house was much bigger on the inside than it should be.

Rafael led him outside, unable to ignore that Harry seemed pretty quiet and self-contained but also tended to mumble or talk to himself at times. Like he was used to being alone with his thoughts. But not like some of the more antisocial people he’d met in his life who were hostile to having people around or just didn’t know how to act.

Harry was clearly capable of manners and conversation.

Just a little quirky too.

Rafael probably shouldn’t find that as cute as he did.

“We didn’t touch the shed,” Rafael explained as Harry cocked his head at the simple A-frame outbuilding made of weather-beaten wood except for a few new patches that he’d done during the renovations. “It’s a decent size but not wired for electric, we stored the fence rails inside in case you wanted to resell them as reclaimed wood or use it for another project.” Leading him farther into the backyard, after a couple minutes they came to the back property line where the rest of Rafael’s crew were stacking Harry’s unpolished/cut obsidian for the new wall. “And like you asked, the new fence line is three feet off the actual property line.”

Harry had to blink as they came up to the crew who were easily moving the stone around in quite the show for anyone who was interested in men with plenty of sweat-slicked bulging muscle.

Not all of the crew were all that handsome, it had to be said, and none of them were as in-your-face attractive as their boss, but none of them were ugly either which Harry thought was distinctly unfair to normal humans everywhere.

Though now that he was around Rafael _and_ a half-dozen of his crew, Harry was starting to doubt that he was dealing with _normal humans_ as there was something almost buzzing in the air between them.

Laughing and smiling as he was introduced to the crew, playing along with the jokes about him being a picky Englishman, he closed and opened his eyes for a tick longer than a normal blink, then almost kicked himself for missing it before blinking to cancel the runic spell that let him _see_ magic and magical bonds.

He must be more tired than he thought to miss it, or just that boggled by Rafael.

Each and everyone of the work crew on his property, including or maybe especially Rafael, were magical in some fashion.

And given the bonds all leading to Rafael even if they had some to each other, he was thinking he had lycanthropes and their leader on his hands - though what kind he wasn’t sure.

Nothing he’d run into before, however, that much he knew.

Explained the scar - or brand maybe - that kept peeking out from under Rafael’s left sleeve that looked like a _crown_.

Because Rafael, whatever else he was, was a king or prince of his people.

 _That_ certainly put a bit of a dampener on his plans regarding the handsome...shifter, he supposed was the right term since he didn’t know what species he was dealing with.

Damn it.

…

“His _scent_ …” Jimmy, one of the dominant wererats in the Rodere, all-but _-moaned_ as soon as their client excused himself to go back inside after thanking all of them for their hard work on his new home.

Harry had clearly been wilting from the heat, humidity, and probably a ton of jetlag, but he’d still been polite and pleasant to all of them and hadn’t thought twice or hesitated at all to shake any of their hands despite the grit and dirt from stacking rock that covered them which had gained him major points with them.

Even more than the way he looked and smelled did, as while there were some lycanthropes who were strict about their sexual and/or romantic preferences, most of them were at least a little - or very - flexible.

And when someone smelled like _that_ with those _eyes_ then maybe even a few of the strict ones might give it a second think before dismissing him out of hand.

“I know.” Rafael lifted his head to take a deep breath of the barely-there breeze to help clear out the intoxicating aroma out of his head. “I’ve never smelled anything quite like it, though the undertones of copper remind me of a vampire or animator.”

“Or a surgeon, chef, butcher.” Doug added, the burly corn-fed Kansas boy complete with golden hair, blue eyes, and a farmer’s tan on his ruddy skin added. “Soldier, merc, marshal, forensic tech, anyone that handles blood really all have that undertone. Doesn’t mean he’s our kinda special.”

“Well, not _our kind_ of special.” Jimmy agreed with that easily. “He’s not a shifter or were that I’ve ever run into.”

“He’s something.” Rafael shut down any speculation otherwise that Doug’s comment might’ve led to. His people weren’t going to end up fucked over because they dismissed Harry - no matter how appealing, he couldn’t overlook the potential risk - as vanilla human. “You can feel it on him if you can’t scent it out. We just don’t know _what_ yet and until we do we stay polite, friendly, but not trusting. Understood?”

“Yes, Rom.”

“Good.”

Doug shared a smirk with the rest of the crew then said what they were all thinking.

“So, boss, you planning to _personally investigate_ St. Louie’s newest _something_ or is he free game?”

The growling hiss that Rafael sent them had them all quickly swallowing the chuckles, laughs, and smiles that wanted to pour out of them and turning back to work as Rafael stalked back inside more than half-way to pissed off at the thought of any of his people chasing Harry Potter’s tight - and perky - little ass.

At least, before Rafael had his chance.

It was good to be King.

…

Harry was upstairs enjoying the sweet relief that was ducking into a cool shower for a moment when he felt more than heard the alarm charm he’d set on the downstairs doors go off for the back of the house in his head.

Shaking like a dog, complete with his hair that was _really_ starting to bug him now that he was experiencing August in St. Louis and making a mental note to get it cut, he hit his body with a drying charm and finger-combed the mess of hair back off his face as he strode to the fresh trousers he’d left on the counter across the room.

Underwear and a shirt both seemed like too much of a bother at the moment as exhaustion started to weigh him down, and he cuffed his jeans under his knee with a spell and double-checked that his wands were still in their holsters on his arm and calf.

Snagging an envelope he’d made up before stripping off and hitting the shower, Harry padded back downstairs on bare feet, coming around the corner of the stairs at the base and getting a wide-eyed - if appreciative - look from Rafael’s dark eyes as they took in his barely-dressed state.

Which, confidence-boosting as it was, Harry couldn’t really be arsed about it at the moment when all he wanted was to fall face-down on his bed for a couple hours before waking up to ward his home after dusk.

For his part, Rafael was realigning some more of his expectations at the sight of some seriously impressive ink and a couple of scars that were almost but not quite hidden by the flamework on Harry’s arms.

A couple of the tattoos niggled at his mind but he couldn’t remember why they seemed familiar off the top of his head.

“The crew’s almost done with the wall.” Rafael shook his head lightly trying to focus on finishing out the job so that he actually _could_ focus on all of that bare flesh and intriguing scent without irritating his own ethics in the process. He gestured for Harry to join him at the kitchen counter where the invoices and work orders and receipts were all lined up and waiting. He walked Harry through it all, then had him sign off on the completed job summary.

“Remaining balance,” which he had in hand thanks to the invoice Rafael had printed up knowing that barring a freak summer storm they’d be done that day. “Will be wired over by morning. If it’s not, I haven’t got a phone set up yet but you know where to find me. Here,” he held out the envelope, Rafael taking it and investigating the contents. “A bonus for you and your guys for such quick and excellent work.”

Rafael’s brows rose as he thumbed through the crisp hundred-dollar bills.

Harry must have at least glanced at the paperwork before going to shower off the plane ride because there was exactly the same amount of bills as the number of workmen who’d been on the job.

“This is going to put you at the top of their favorite job list.” Rafael chuckled, but took the money since it was for his people, already planning to hand it out as soon as possible which meant hunting down a couple of his guys who hadn’t been needed just to stack rock today. “I’ll have eager volunteers if you ever need more work done.”

“You’ve uncovered my evil plans for world domination.” Harry told him deadpan, rolling his eyes a little as he leaned forward and braced his crossed forearms on the counter top as Rafael collected up his copies of the paperwork and folded them to stick in his back jeans pocket. “To be a good person who treats others well.”

Until they pissed him off or got in his way or threatened those he cares about anyway.

“Oh no, not that.” Rafael shot back, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he walked around to Harry’s side of the counter and leaned in, not really invading the other man’s personal space but definitely pushing the boundary of _friendly_. “You must be stopped.”

“Oh?” Harry quirked a brow, suddenly hit with Rafael’s switch from professional to playful and finding he liked it. He liked it a _lot_. And so did his libido as he felt himself start to heat back up despite having just cooled off. 1920’s-built homes didn’t tend to have things like air conditioning, though with a few cooling charms he could handle that. Not that he really thought it would help in the wake of the full-force of Rafael’s bright white smile against his tan and finding himself dazzled more than any starstruck witch at a Gilderoy Lockhart event. “What’s your plan?”

“I was thinking,” Rafael slipped the words out slowly, teasing just a bit. “Dinner. How’s your Friday looking? Busy settling in, or…?” He left it up to Harry to accept the date for two nights away - which was fast, especially for literally just having gotten to a new city - or to suggest another or to blow him off entirely if Rafael was reading him wrong.

He wasn’t unless Harry had hang-ups or issues that belied what a were - especially a wererat which were some of the best trackers around - could scent, but the possibility was there nonetheless.

Attraction, no matter how significant or severe, didn’t also automatically mean that there was any intent behind it. People were attracted to each other all the time. That didn’t mean they went around doing anything about it, though Rafael thought that vanilla humans at least would be a lot easier to deal with if they did instead of being so repressed all the time.

Not all of them, naturally, but enough for most preternaturals to find them ridiculous.

Harry searched his face for a long moment, gauging how serious Rafael was about the offer and getting _very_ , then answered.

“Friday should be fine.” He decided. “I’ll leave a message at your office if something comes up. Seven o’clock?”

“I’ll be here with bells on.” Rafael smiled genuinely, then glanced over his shoulder, hearing the wolf-whistles and heckling of his crew but not able to say anything without knowing what Harry _was_ other than something _other_. “Until then, be safe Harry.”

“Be safe?” Harry lifted his brows in surprise as Rafael pushed away from the counter and started walking backwards towards the french doors and sundeck outside.

Though it did rather confirm to Harry even if he was unsure in his abilities - which he wasn’t - that Rafael was at least _in the know_ if not a shifter.

“St. Louis can be a dangerous city even for those of us who call it home.” Rafael warned. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you because you were unprepared.”

Harry just smirked, a bit of playfulness of his own coming to the forefront as he followed Rafael, waiting until the shifter was on the deck and outside the house with Harry standing clear of the door and a few feet away before responding.

“I think you’ll find,” he began, then flicked his fingers in a shooing motion that had the doors shutting softly and clicking the lock over that was a better display of controlled power than slamming them. “That I can take care of myself.”

Rafael stood there stunned for a long moment, having never seen anyone do something like that - _telekinesis, he was pretty sure that was telekinesis_ \- outside of a vampire.

And as he’d previously noted, Harry Potter had absolutely zero problems with sunlight.

Then he tossed his head back and laughed, then bowed in appreciation for the correction which Harry answered with a mocking little wave before turning likely to start unpacking.

Whatever Harry was, he was _definitely_ interesting.

Rafael could hardly wait to learn more about him - and what he could do.

“What was that about?” Jimmy asked, the rest of the wererats being too far away to have seen what exactly happened and with the shed in the way besides. “There at the end?”

“I already told you. Harry isn’t ordinary, he’s one of us.”

“And off limits.” The rest echoed his earlier warning - or the meat of it anyway.

Rafael’s grin was all teeth.

“Definitely off limits.”

…

Harry found it both awesome and fucking strange that he landed a date before managing to do literally anything else except get the keys to his new house after moving to track down his godfather.

Especially when the _might-be-a-shifter_ thing was thrown into the mix and that much he only figured out because he’d been doing a deep and intense study (as much as possible anyway, as there was a stigma surrounding the preternatural in most places from what he could tell of varying severity) on a little subject he liked to call _what the fucking is going on with this world._

However, Mr. Handsome Rafael Reyes shifter or not or something else preternatural that he just hasn’t run into yet was also hot like burning so he wasn’t exactly upset over the turn of events.

Just a smidge discombobulated.

After locking up the house - both windows and doors - with a spell and resetting the alert charm, Harry padded back upstairs determined to let the entire subject rest for the moment when he had about a dozen things to do if he wanted to start tracking Sirius on the ground tomorrow.

And unfortunately as divine as it sounded, sleeping wasn’t anywhere near the top of the list.

Flicking his wrist, Harry released his wand as he moved into his new bedroom, moving it in precise swishes and flicks as he manually - a precaution to keep magical theives at bay - opened the top of his rucksack and began summoning the contents and sending them throughout the house to wherever they belonged.

Trunks of books in the room he’d earmarked for the library, his clothes folding themselves into his dresser or hanging themselves up in the walk-in-closet, his one pair of spare shoes - runners for exercising - sent off to the shoe rack in the same.

Toiletries lined themselves up on the bathroom countertop or the shower ledge or tucked themselves away in drawers.

His shrunken potions chest went in one of the nightstand drawers while the ingredients and supplies chests for whatever magical thing he might need from potions to rituals for the moment joined it temporarily until he could get the various rooms set up.

Likely outside in that shed since he didn’t want to blow up his home _and_ he wasn’t going to have the benefit of generations of magic and wards and protections being laid down and overlapped and reinforced to keep anything catastrophic from happening.

Harry trusted his warding abilities but still: better safe than sorry.

His trunk with the remaining goblin silver - a sensible precaution as he’d learned it tended to be a major weakness for many preternatural species in his new home - made itself at home in his closet as well, then he set up the wizarding tent in the vast emptiness that was the rest of his bedroom and cannibalized the interior for everything from toilet paper to towels to bed linens that had to be sized to fit.

He occupied himself with playing with colors for his curtains and walls upstairs until his alert on the gate he’d put up as he’d passed through it in the taxi told him Rafael and the crew had left, allowing him to send the food and drinks from his pack to organize themselves into the pantry, cupboards, and fridge.

At least the utilities - except for the water which apparently drew from a well on-site and the sewer which was septic - had been automatically switched over and automatic payment from his account so that was a hassle he wouldn’t have thought of that Heidi and his bank helped him arrange.

As settled in as he _could_ be without more shopping, Harry returned the tent back into the rucksack and tucked it away in his closet before padding back downstairs.

“Cooling charms anchored to the fans might be the best bet.” Harry noted out loud as he registered the fact that the house might not have air conditioning but there were ceiling fans in every room or in the case of the kitchen and bathrooms exhaust fans. “Muggles - even ones like this world’s who should be more aware - don’t tend to notice things like that as long as there’s a viable muggle excuse to blame.”

He idly flicked a few color changing charms at the walls as he walked through the house down to the kitchen on his way for a snack, setting wards would suck up a lot of energy even with such excellent charging and anchoring stones and he’d need the calories even if the thought of food was gross at the moment.

Snack, more sugary juice than seems healthy, and a Pepper-Up devoured, Harry actually felt human again by the time the sun started to set and he rose with a sigh to tick a couple more boxes off his list and get a couple steps closer to finding Sirius.

If he was still that blazingly enraged teenager left reeling from Sirius’s supposed death, he wouldn’t have the patience let alone the self-control to wait.

However, while he was still angry about what had been done to him and everything he’d lost to the wizarding world, he _wasn’t_ an angry ball of teenaged angst and irrational thinking any longer. No, the Black portraits and time had rather thoroughly cured him of any desire to rush blindly into a situation. Information and knowledge were a power all their own and one that he’d rarely experienced leveraged for his benefit until he came under the training of the Black family. It had been used _against_ him quite often along with his own ignorance but at going on sixteen he had been so fed up of secrets and _not knowing_ that he’d been willing to do anything to cure the lack and get some straight answers.

And that blind anger and impetuousness had cost him over and over and over again.

As the portraits of the past Black Lords had had zero compunction in pointing out until they drilled it into his brain that being brave wasn’t the same thing as being _stupid_.

So Harry went through the motions of setting up house. He played with color charms on the walls and curtains - which some might think frivolous compared to his reason for coming to St. Louis in the first place, he certainly would’ve even that first year he studied with the portraits - and worked on anchoring temperature control charms to the fans.

They were more fiddly but would work on keeping the rooms warm or cool as needed without being triggered by the fans being _on_.

He used transfiguration and his flames together in a ritual to forge the rough obsidian stacked-stone fence into a sheer six-foot wall of polished volcanic glass, with wards to keep attention off of the property and magic in general - similar to Notice-Me-Nots but more specialized for magical properties in muggle areas - and anchored the actual security, protection, and secrecy wards on the wall itself.

Given the law about using magic to kill being an instant death-sentence (if caught) Harry put up warning and no trespassing signs that straight-up _told_ people that magical protections were in place on the property:

**WARNING: No Trespassing**

**Magical Protections Are Active on Property**

**Violators WILL Live to Regret It**

Harry thought it was rather fair and clear, if not as snappy as the poem on the doors of Gringotts.

They were intention wards on the interior protections after those geared to making muggles ignore and/or (depending on their level of aversion to magic) avoid the property, which really _would_ make someone live to regret trying to trespass with ill-intentions.

A mild warning zap, little more than the shock from static electricity followed up by a second warning of being pushed back, then the third and final protection would kick into place with a full body-bind and a Boil Jinx that would splatter their intentions all over their face.

Hermione really was one of the most intelligent people he’d ever met and that Boil Jinx the best non-lethal retribution he’d come across even with all his studying.

The wards on the house itself weren’t nearly so benign but if someone made it beyond his outer perimeter to try and breech the house - and the shed when he had it set up - then they deserved what they got.

The laws said nothing about turning in people in a magical coma, or drooling insensate messes from a curse, just about _lethal force_ and as always came back to what they could _prove_.

From what Harry could tell, there just weren’t enough people around causing problems using what passed for this world’s version of magic to have a lot of legislation surrounding it. It was very Wild West in his opinion but as he came from a world with severely regulated magic that was understandable. If anything, he loved that there was such a lack of regulations since it gave him so much leeway to do what he liked but at the same time not being able to kill in self defense with magic could potentially be a problem.

On the other hand it went back to the _if he gets caught_ caveat like with any crime and he was a fan of fire…

And besides all of those loopholes he could exploit there was also the simple fact that just because Harry had magic didn't _mean_ that he needed it to protect himself or to kill someone.

No. The dueling automatons had drilled him quite effectively in what used to be considered "gentlemanly" sports like swordplay, non-magical dueling, and what Asterion called "gentlemanly fisticuffs" which to Harry was like pre-boxing boxing. If nothing else if he couldn't run away from a fight that would have him locked up or killed for using magic in public, he could always kick their ass the muggle way. That he learned how to throw a punch because of pureblooded lordly hobbies was an irony that wasn't lost on him.

Finally the wards were set, allowing visitors with neutral-to-good intentions to pass through the gate and up the drive to knock on his door but nothing else until he either lets them in or writes them into the ward with his warding master book that he’d copied the idea of from Grimmauld Place since it allowed quick adjustments to the wards without having to expend any magic.

It made setting things _up_ a hassle and a half, but later adjustments extremely easy so he’d take the trade off.

That done and the ward book hidden under secrecy and security charms in a kitchen drawer, Harry sighed and rolled his head on his shoulders before glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall over the range. It was an oiled bronze piece in the shape of a sun with rays that spiraled out in thin arms that were quite pretty. He also hadn’t picked it out, though the note that had been tucked into the glass protecting the creme face with its copper numbers and hands said it was a welcoming gift from Rafael’s company.

A charming gesture, one he appreciated but didn’t attach any special significance to except for as a mark of Rafael’s manners since it had been made before they even met and Rafael ended up asking him on a date.

Only eleven o’clock. Back to work then, he needed to keep himself awake until at least one before sleeping if he wanted his body to adjust quickly to the time difference. He sighed again, grabbing a bottle of water and a chocolate bar before wandering outside to deal with the boulders he’d bought for a mini-stone dance.

Perk of having more land than a postage-stamp garden: he could set up a proper ritual circle outside with grounding and protection and purification stones for a barrier instead of having to go the basement route, though there were still a few things he’d need to do indoors when the weather turned foul.

He figured by the time he polished, shaped, and mounted the obsidian boulders in place - each at least six feet tall and three feet in circumference - and set up one for an altar/work space, he’d be able to sleep.

And if not there was always the shed to start turning into a potions lab.

…

Sirius Orion Black could remember _vividly_ the sensation of falling back into nothingness with the anguish scream of his godson ringing in his ears.

There were times when he still thought that he had the blood on his tongue from biting almost clear through his lip when he was tossed arse over teakettle onto the blood-soaked ground of a hill in what he found out was Branson, Missouri.

But no matter how much he searched his mind and meditated and practiced Occlumency, he never _could_ manage to recall what came in between.

What he _did_ remember was being clearer-headed than he’d felt in ages, since before Azkaban, and as if a massive weight had been lifted on his shoulders.

That weightless feeling hadn’t lasted long, it’d taken less than a day to realize that he was somewhere that was a bit farther from home than just across the pond.

Call him what you liked, Sirius Black had never been an idiot.

Spiteful, brash, foolhardy; certainly.

But not stupid.

He hadn’t been an Auror for nothing and with a clear head and no clue what sort of magical accident he’d undergone, he’d treated it like an undercover operation and set about adapting and surviving and carrying on until things started to make sense again.

His bond to Harry was quiet but it had been since he’d been sent to Azkaban.

The Dementors weren’t _kind_ to happy things after all, and while they couldn’t break the sort of ancient magic that made up a bond between blood-sworn godparents and their charges, they certainly could try their best anyway.

He kept heart for the first year that he’d make it back home somehow, that someone would figure out where he was and bring him home, but eventually reality had set in and he’d had to give it up if he wanted to retain the hard-won sanity he’d regained after escaping Azkaban and then being dropped into an entirely new world alone.

A stranger in a strange land, it hadn’t taken him long at all to figure out that they had nothing and no one capable of using magic like him.

And that?

Now _that_ was something Sirius could work with and make a life with.

About the same time vampires became legal citizens and lycanthropes and magic all came out of the proverbial closet, Sirius was resigned to the status quo and had no compunction whatsoever about parlaying his personal skills and unique abilities into a comfortable living.

Whether he technically existed in anything but magically forged documents or not.

Other preternatural beings quickly became his best customers as they weren’t ones to shy away from a secrecy agreement or throw a fit about paying in cash - or depending on the age of the vampire in question - or gold.

It was a life and he was starting to enjoy living it.

And then four years and two months after arriving in his new locale, the bond that had laid dormant for years and years suddenly _flared_ to life before quieting down with a hum that was less lifeless and more muffled by distance.

Spinning around - ignoring that he was in the office of one of his best vampire customers - he faced the direction that he’d felt the flare from, not all that surprised to find himself facing northeast.

 _“Harry_.”

“Pardon, mon ami?” Jean-Claude, a master vampire that Sirius had yet to get a firm reading on his age _or_ power, of the Belle Morte line (and his otherworldly beauty and sensuality certainly proved it) asked in confusion. “Is something wrong?”

Tossing back his head, Sirius barked a laugh then beamed a smile at the bemused-looking vampire.

“No, Jean-Claude. For the first time in years something is _right_.”

…


	3. Chapter 3

**Ancient Bonds**

**Chapter Three: Definitions of Dead**

Jean-Claude, master vampire of over six hundred years of age, hadn’t survived to that great age by taking things on _chance_.

Chance and luck hadn’t kept him alive in the clutches of his line’s _sourdre de sang_ , the progenitor of their line of vampires, Belle Morte, nor had it helped him in her court.

Luck and chance hadn’t carried him through a hundred years of servitude to her and through her the rest of the Vampire Council and their courts, nor under the auspices of Nikolaos, the Master of St. Louis when he’d served his time and been smuggled away from Europe and Belle Morte’s immediate reach.

No, master vampires who’d started life as whipping boys didn’t bet their survival on such tenuous and fickle notions as luck and chance.

Jean-Claude preferred to stack the deck and use every weapon at hand in his favor.

For the last four years the main ace he’d had - in addition to being under the rule of a master vampire who’d been turned while still a child and therefore stunted in development and understanding of some aspects of the world - came in the form of his current favorite human one Sirius Orion Black. A man who until Jean-Claude had greased the right wheels hadn’t existed on any record anywhere despite the excellent forgeries the self-named wizard had in his possession. Jean-Claude had helped turn his forgeries into an actual paper trail that would fool anyone who went looking and in turn found himself with a magical contact with more power in his little _finger_ than any animator or psychic or necromancer Jean-Claude had ever met.

He was also irreverent, exasperating, and refused to share blood with anyone while being impervious to being rolled by a vampire’s hypnotism but such things were accepted when they came in a powerful package unafraid to get his hands dirty.

Sirius specialized in what he called _wards_ , magical protections, and his were the best Jean-Claude had ever seen or felt in all his many years.

He was an invaluable friend and ally - and wasn’t hard on the eyes either though all his offers to share his bed had _also_ been rejected on a basis of _too much flirtatious ego for one bed_ _between us_ \- with predictable moods and a boisterous personality.

And when such an invaluable friend and ally stopped mid-sentence as if someone had reached inside him and tugged on his heart, Jean-Claude wasn’t inclined to leave the cause to chance or allow Sirius to brush him off despite how... _joyful_ the often mournful-under-the-mask wizard was afterward.

Jean-Claude didn’t have much to go on however, just a name and a direction, as a result using his contacts around the city to notify him of anyone named Harry who showed up asking for Sirius or someone of Sirius’s description.

Little pieces he hadn’t asked for but others found curious made their way to his ears and he started to gain a picture though he couldn’t vouch for how accurate it was.

A _Hari Potter_ purchased a home from the Rodere using an account from a Swiss bank and paying cash.

That alone would’ve peaked Jean-Claude’s interest as more and more vampires immigrated to the United States or other countries that ratified the Bill of Life allowing them legal status and some rights. While he didn’t personally know of a vampire by that name, it didn’t mean one didn’t exist. Vampires were far more numerous than the humans wanted to consider or admit after all, while a Master _should_ be aware of all in their city and under their purview, to know the full accounting of their people would be impossible for perhaps even the Council.

That same _Hari_ used the same numbered account to hire the Rodere’s construction company to have certain particulars done prior to arrival, and their cleaning company for a deep clean of the home as well.

When one of his people passed him a message regarding a strange Englishman who’d taken a taxi out to the property in question, who came to the city to reconnect with family he’d lost touch with - and Sirius also being English - he thought he had the answer to what made his friend break into laughter.

The only question that remained was whether that joy would remain after the two found each other once again or if Jean-Claude would have to administer suitable _punishment_ to his friend’s family for breaking him into pieces all over again.

…

Harry woke up the next morning to the warmth and anticipation of his bond with Sirius pulsing gently inside his breast.

Smiling before he even opened his eyes, he sat up and cast a wandless _Tempus_ , pleased that he’d slept until noon which was what he was hoping for since he knew that most of the preternatural-inclined sections of larger cities tended to only come to life at night.

_That_ was his best bet for tracking Sirius if he acted anything like Harry remembered.

Sirius Black, friend of muggleborns and blood traitors, lover of muggle motorcycles and pin-ups but still somehow a purebred pureblood down to his toes.

He’d be more at home among vampires and lycanthropes than magicless muggles, especially as the former had thriving communities and businesses operating in the open.

Someone as flash as Sirius would _revel_ in that sort of thing and flaunting who they are.

Which left Harry with his errands to run to finish setting up his home - it was shaping up into a home despite his best attempts to stay a step back in case Sirius lived elsewhere after all, one he made for himself and one he wouldn’t be quick to abandon - and a bloody haircut before he drove himself crazy.

Mentally sketching out his plans, Harry finally left his cozy pile of salvaged bedding - replacements being one of those things on his list to manage like the semi-functioning adult he liked to convince himself he was - and headed for the first shower of the day.

If the weather was anything like the day before he wasn’t counting on it being the last.

_Fucking awful humidity._

…

Harry was pleased after he finished getting ready for the day and eating breakfast to see the same driver from the day before pulling up right on time at one o’clock as he’d arranged while paying the man.

Locking the door behind him and making sure he had his wallet and his copy of the house address for the phone and internet companies, Harry smiled at the man as he jogged down the steps.

“Where to today, Mister Potter?” The driver asked after exchanging a nod and starting down the drive, the automatic gate closing behind them.

Or so the man thought, Harry’s security spells taking care of it instead of any electronic sensor system.

He envisioned many an entertaining moment where guests tried to get him to tell them where he kept the security camera he used to open it from the house, or the system’s controls to begin with.

Ah, the perks of being the lone wizard among muggles.

“Phone company first, David.” Harry told him, holding in a sigh at needing to get the boring - and likely frustrating - stops done first.

“Whatever you say, Mister Potter.” David the driver nodded agreeably. And he was _very_ agreeable as the foreign man had hired him for the entire afternoon at twice what he’d normally make during that time frame.

“Boring stops first, then.” This time he _did_ sigh which seemed to entertain his audience. “Then on the last one we’ll get to have some fun.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmm.” He flashed a mischievous grin. “They’re expecting me at the BMW Motorrad dealership sometime tomorrow. Let’s surprise them.”

…

“Mister Potter arranged to have his phone and internet services set up, got a haircut, went shopping for home goods with same-day delivery, and then finished the day at the motorcycle dealership.” Willy, one of the vampires who preferred to work with Jean-Claude instead of branching out on his own or pursuing other options - like directly serving in Nikolaos’s court she maintained as the Master of the City - summed up the report from one of their human eyes-and-ears in the city. “He left with one of their higher-end models according to the driver and didn’t make arrangements for him to pick him up again.”

“Too bad,” Jean-Claude felt a sardonic smile tug at his mouth. “He was useful for keeping tabs on this strange newcomer. Do make sure to give our helpful friend a bonus for his diligent work, _oui?”_

…

The motorcycle was gleaming in candy-apple red paint, black powder coat, and chrome. It had one of the most powerful street-legal engines on the market - at least according to the salesman. What Harry was _most_ interested in however was that it had a sleek frame that he wouldn’t look ridiculous riding or have to tippy-toe to handle and the sort of maneuverability that would allow him to dart in-and-out of traffic _almost_ as if he was on his Firebolt albeit a lot slower.

Teaching Harry how to ride his motorcycle that’d been returned by Hagrid had been one of the highlights of the month spent at Grimmauld Place before his fifth year and Harry was eager to reclaim the freedom learning to ride had given him without having to layer himself and his broom in charms and protections against being seen or noticed.

Harry actually still had Sirius’s old Triumph but he’d never ridden it without him.

It didn’t feel right, it wasn’t _his_ with Sirius still out there somewhere.

Shrinking the Triumph after draining the fluids and carrying it with him was hardly a challenge compared to the contents of the Black Library or enough ingredients and supplies to outfit a potion’s lab even Snape would drool over.

At the moment it was resting on Harry’s nightstand, just waiting for its owner to be located and returned to him.

Safety spells in place of a helmet and security charms to keep someone from trying to steal his new toy in place, Harry swung his leg over the seat of his bike and closed his eyes, focusing on the warm pulse in his chest.

Then they snapped open, Harry smiling wickedly, and he twisted the throttle _roaring_ down the drive and out on the hunt, his gate swinging softly closed behind him and a city to search before him.

…

Harry followed the pulse of the bond, doubling back when it grew fainter, turning where he sensed it grow stronger, speeding in ever-tightening circles surrounding what David the driver had called Riverfront.

He’d also told him that it was called _Blood Square_ by “some folks” or just the District by those who lived or did business in the area.

By which Harry understood that the preternatural called it the District with bigots calling it Blood Square and everyone else landing in between with the neutral-sounding Riverfront label.

Finding Sirius in an area that thrived and came to life at night wasn’t a surprise.

It was whether he’d won a bet with himself over where he’d find Sirius and with whom once he’d come to have at least a shallow understanding of how things worked in this world that was the question.

Harry had mentally debated over whether Sirius would avoid other preternaturals or if he’d hide his own strangeness among them and it looked like he’d chosen door number two. Which, if Harry was being honest with himself, _was_ the sort of devil-may-care risk he could see the Black family’s white sheep enjoying.

Not that Harry could talk what with landing a date with who was was 99.9% certain was a lycanthrope and possibly a powerful one on his first day in the city, but meh.

Potter Luck was that way.

One moment he was successfully stealing a time-turner, the next he was losing his godfather.

One day life would be slapping him down with so many bindings and compulsions it was a minor miracle that he’d managed to listen to the goblins and start breaking them.

The next he was turning around to find himself surrounded by magical portraits able to teach him how to save himself.

Good and bad in a mixed bag and half the time he was bracing himself for whatever came next as the wheel spun.

By the time he made it to Riverfront itself, parking was a scene from a nightmare, Harry forced to park several blocks away from the club that he felt Sirius either inside or nearby, setting the security charms and then studying everything - and everyone - around him as he moved back towards the pull of his godfather.

The bond had been stressed and strained from the time Harry was orphaned, reestablished for less than two years, then forced into dormancy.

To say that the ancient magics of blood and oaths was eager to fix itself would be an understatement in the extreme.

He wasn’t surprised, however, to see that Sirius wasn’t pulled to him the way Harry was to Sirius. A side-effect, from what he could tell, of Harry being a blood mage. Magics founded, based, or anchored in blood would _always_ have a greater demanding presence for Harry than for the non-blood mage wizard or witch.

Magic might at times seem to be an agent of chaos but it also liked _balance_ and the greater or more powerful the mage or magic the greater the need to balance it.

Most people in the wizarding world he’d expect had never had need to worry about that kind of thing, about side-effects and magical backlash beyond screwing up a spell in the first place. What massive workings they _did_ do or participate in were mostly wards and protective spells. And the weight of balancing them was usually handled as the cost of the spell in expensive ingredients or materials or the loopholes that the ward or spell contained.

Like the _Fidelius_ requiring a Secret Keeper who could only reveal the secret willingly.

Powerful magic was chock-full of those sorts of trade-offs and balancing acts.

The one Harry has to pay as a Blood Mage with all the _many_ uses, perks, and benefits that the power afforded him was being sensitive to blood magics in turn.

They couldn’t be - successfully, anyway - used against him but anything that he _chose_ to do on his own accord he would never be able to ignore or set aside.

Blood magic worked by a Blood Mage was permanent for that Blood Mage, hence his having to _choose_ a single element and a single spell within that range to bind to himself to represent the element.

Acknowledging and _using_ the bond he shared with Sirius as his godson reactivated it on his end after the years of dormancy - and it _wasn’t happy_ that there wasn’t much if any reciprocation coming from the other side.

Once it was eased, it should revert to a state of just giving a general sense of well-being with the ability to use it for tracking if one of them was in danger.

Technically, it also was supposed to be used as a tracker by the “mentor” side of the bond but technicalities had never mattered all that much to Harry once he set his mind on something.

He eyed up the club that the bond had led him to and sighed, scrubbing one hand over his face as just _what the fuck he was looking at_ registered.

Sirius was inside a _fucking vampire male strip-club_.

Because of course he was.

Snorting softly and shaking his head - though kinda glad to see that jumping worlds on accident hadn’t broken his godfather entirely if he was still up to certain shenanigans that would have his mother turning over in her grave - Harry strode up to the club’s bouncer.

Ignoring the line of hopeful patrons who were nearly _salivating_ or having palpitations over giving into their personal _Guilty Pleasures_ at the aptly-named club, Harry eyed the vampire as the blond male with a buzzcut and more muscles than seemed reasonable eyed him up in turn.

“Back of the line kid.” The bouncer told him after a long glance at youthful features marred by one helluva scar. He didn’t smell like a were, or like death like an animator, and that _delicious_ smelling blood was plenty healthy as it throbbed steadily at his throat.

That made him a customer and the boss didn’t like it when anyone but the rare VIP cut the line.

Sighing, Harry reached into the back pocket of his soft black jeans for his dragonhide wallet and flipped it open to show the healthy stack of notes tucked inside it.

Eyes locked on the vampire and smirking when the man looked taken aback when his attempt at some form of compulsion - must be that vampire hypnosis he’d read about going over about as well as an _Imperio_ against his sheer stubbornness - failed miserably, Harry started peeling out hundred dollar bills.

The bouncer rolled his eyes when there was five hundred bucks fanned out - but still half-tucked in the wallet, the kid wasn’t an idiot for all that it seemed he had money to burn or at least the appearance of it - and jerked a thumb at the door as he undid the velvet rope and the stranger handed him the notes cool as could be.

All without having spoken a single word that would warn any of the preternaturals who may or may not lie beyond the door of the club of who he was or why he was there.

…

After passing by the check girl - _holy items, really? Who would bring or wear something like that to a vampire club, that’s just_ rude. - Harry suddenly and fervently wished that the goblins hadn’t fixed his vision.

At least then he would’ve been able to semi-blind himself and focus on the bond alone instead of being blindsided and distracted by his libido for the second time in two days.

Harry had to give his appreciation to whoever ran the club: they knew how to source their particular brand of _talent_.

Granted, some of the waiters or dancers on display didn’t really _do_ anything for Harry, but he could imagine - and if he couldn’t all he’d have to do was take a look around at the patrons for proof regardless - how they _would_ appeal to others.

Like the dancer on the main stage at the moment who was covered in bite scars.

Vampire bait.

Or the tall auburn-haired piece of strange who felt like a vampire to Harry now that he’d met the one outside - only much stronger - but screamed _unstable_ to him with the look in his eyes.

He knew that look. He’d seen it in his godfather’s eyes the first time they met. Whoever the redhead was, he was one wrong look, word, or memory away from snapping unless someone intervened and talked him down or knocked him out.

Forcing himself to focus despite another redhead - this one also with hair down passed his waist but a truer red - who had a delicacy about his features and _stunning_ soft lilac eyes who _was_ his type, mainly by focusing on the bond and that he had a date with Rafael the next evening, Harry allowed the bond to tug him through the club like he was on a leash.

The club staff and patrons alike eyed him as he moved fluidly through the crowded, sultry atmosphere towards a door that he just barely made out against the wall.

Confidence could breed complacence in others, act like you know where you’re going and most people won’t bat an eyelash.

A tidbit gifted from Orion Black that served him in good stead now as against all odds no one tried to stop him from walking through the access door that led to a hallway after a wave of his hand over the security keypad on the door.

He _did_ appreciate that unlocking charms of all kinds worked just as well on electronic locks as they did physical ones like keys and tumbler mechanisms.

Shutting the door softly behind him, Harry checked both ways down the hall making sure to note the glowing emergency exit sign to the left that likely led to an alleyway. Closer to the entrance to the club was another door with a stark black STAFF ONLY warning, then down the hall to the right was a spiral staircase that he peered up before daring. Sirius was up there but he wasn’t fooling himself: this was a club staffed by and likely run and owned by preternatural people. They already knew he was here and where he wasn’t supposed to be.

He wasn’t going to walk into a trap, even if Sirius had no earthly idea that Harry was so close or the one it was possibly being set for.

A spell silenced his bootsteps as he ascended the stairs to the door waiting at the top, a flick of his wand opening the door without even a telling brush of air.

Pausing in the doorway, he met dark blue eyes with his unrepentant gaze, instantly captured by them despite who _had_ to be Sirius standing in front of the desk presided over by _Eyes_ with his back to the door.

They were like velvet midnight and just as endless.

The rest of who they belonged to wasn’t anything to scoff at either, the vampire - the strongest and likely oldest yet he’d seen - looking like he’d stepped out of the pages of an erotic fantasy novel with his tumble of ink-black curls around a face that had a beauty too perfect to be real. And yet it was, this world’s form of vampirism not bestowing enticing looks on their kind or even amplifying what was already there. Whoever Eyes had been in life, he’d looked exactly the same as he did in a strip club in Missouri - though likely without the cross-shaped burn scar over his heart that was all Harry could really see of the body that went with the face around Sirius.

Nodding a bit in respect as he suspected that Eyes was at least the manager if not owner of the club, he stepped right up to his godfather’s back and rose on his toes to whisper:

_“I solemnly swear I’m up to no good.”_

…

Barking a laugh, Sirius spun around and snatched his pup up in his arms.

He’d known _something_ was up when Jean-Claude called him to _Guilty Pleasures_ two nights in a row. Unless there was a major shakeup going on in the preternatural power structure, there was no need for Sirius to come around that often to inspect and maintain the protections on the vampire’s favorite business. When Jean-Claude looked _behind_ him rather than at him and he smelled something strange-familiar with an animagus’s enhanced senses - which for his canine form revolved around scent - he’d felt like the butt of a joke that was about to be sprang.

Jean-Claude was usually _far_ too polite to avoid eye-contact after all, and hadn’t gotten that middle-distance stare that people, even vampires, got when they were thinking something over.

He’d been looking at something behind him and then as he’d felt breath stir his collar-length hair he’d known it was instead a case of _someone_.

Sirius hadn’t had long to worry about that, less than a second, as _what_ they’d said slammed home.

Just like the bond flaring into full life the second he whirled and snapped his godson up in his arms that had more than regained their pre-Azkaban strength after five-plus years away from that hellhole.

“Mischief managed, pup.” Sirius said around a laugh, ecstatic to see that whatever had brought Harry here and however he’d managed it, that he hadn’t lost his sense of fun along the way. “Circe it’s good to see you, let me look at you!”

Sirius stepped back, hands holding onto arms that were slender but had steel wire it felt like running through them, blinking a bit over the changes but not really focusing on them in the wake of much that was the same.

“Well, I’ll be.” Sirius breathed in surprise at the skin-tone he well remembered from James’s dad who’d been like a second father to him. “Adulthood looks good on you, Harry.”

“I could say the same.” Harry teased, reaching up and holding onto Sirius’s hand with his own, having to cross his chest to do so with how Sirius was holding him. “But I think you’d hex me for _daring_ to say that the infamous Sirius Black ever grew up.”

Sirius barked another laugh, pulling his pup into his embrace. One hand came up to cup the back of Harry’s head, short-shorn hairs prickling him. Harry’s head still tucked easily into the curve of Sirius’s neck and shoulder. Four years gone and Harry hadn’t grown much, though whether that could be blamed on some stray genetic popping out or those awful muggles Sirius wasn’t sure.

James and Lily had both been tall, as had Charlus and Dorea for all that Sirius couldn’t speak about Lily’s parents outside of a few pictures but neither of them seemed short.

Neither was Harry when push came to shove, he was taller than some men and the average woman, but he’d never tower over anyone in height the way he could in power.

And that was another change.

Harry had _always_ been powerful, anyone who spent any real time around him as a sprog could’ve attested to that, and when he was angry as he was so often before Sirius... _left_ it could be seen almost roiling off of him.

It didn’t do that anymore, Harry having gotten control of his temper some time in the last few years, but there was no mistaking it all the same and that worried Sirius to no end.

Vampires, like most preternaturals in his new home, were drawn to power.

Sirius hadn’t ended up with mostly vampire and were-shifter friends on _accident_ , they’d come to him as much or more than him seeking them out despite his choosing to peddle wards and protective magics for a living.

And Harry was - perhaps barring a few truly ancient vampires - the most powerful thing this world had probably ever seen.

He’d been one of the most powerful people their old world had to claim when he was a teenager, let alone a young man come into his own, and his power was far more dangerous for being controlled as any intelligent wizard knew.

Of the Death Eaters, Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape had been more feared than even Bellatrix Lestrange for that very reason by the Aurors, like comparing a lethal snake _always_ prepared to go for a strike to a rabid attack dog.

Each feared in their own way, but as different as Grindlewald and Voldemort.

It always entertained him that people called the latter the most terrifying Dark Lord in two hundred years when all he’d really _managed_ to do was just that: inflict terror.

Grindlewald on the other hand had made one _hell_ of a run at conquering the world and came far closer than anyone later wanted to admit when the history books were being written.

“An introduction is in order I believe, _mon ami._ ” 

Jean-Claude waited for the initial round of what seemed like a joyous reunion between who he was betting on being either cousins or uncle and nephew as while the resemblance isn’t particularly striking on the surface, the cheekbones and jaw in particular shared a certain curve that spoke of shared ancestry. An ancestry that had turned out a pair of handsome men indeed, either of them Jean-Claude could put on his stage without a second’s thought. His friend’s relation in particular would appeal to a wide range of patrons with his striking eyes and scar that kept him from tipping over into the range of _pretty_ instead of merely very handsome.

The less said about how he moved with silent grace the better, especially as Jean-Claude _did_ account Sirius as a friend and wouldn’t wish to offend.

If handsome Harry was appreciative of Jean-Claude’s charms then it could be no casual affair if he was inclined to be wooed.

It would have to be _serious_ lest one of the best assets he’d engaged in an age become wroth over him toying with his dear one’s heart...and that was a thought to give him pause if only for a moment.

“For your _petit furtivité_ who slipped through my security with such ease.”

And by association Sirius’s own.

“Ah, right.” Sirius sent Harry a wide-eyed expression, his back still to Jean-Claude, and found himself not _overly comforted_ by the little smirk that his godson shot him in return before blanking his face and then smiling all soft and disarming. Like the little shit hadn’t just waltzed right through both muggle and preternatural security measures into Jean-Claude’s private office.

That little bastard likely even did it _on purpose_ to prank him.

Prongs was laughing his ass off at him from beyond the grave, Sirius just _knew_ it.

Rolling his eyes, Sirius turned and slung an arm around Harry’s shoulders - those at least were a little broader than he remembered - and scraped together some semblance of manners.

“Jean-Claude, allow me to present my godson and cousin Harry Potter. Harry, this is Jean-Claude the owner of this fine club and one of my best clients for wards and protection spells.”

Harry visibly swallowed a laugh at that, realizing that he’d put Sirius in a bit of a position but not feeling overly sorry about it considering all the worrying he’d done over the sod in the last four years.

“ _Enchante monsieur,”_ Jean-Claude smiled slowly as his words brought a flush to Harry’s cheeks.

Harry had never heard anything like it, even Snape’s infamous voice that could cut like a rapier or convey a silky threat or almost caress when he was talking about the subjects he adored wasn’t a patch on it.

Jean-Claude had as close to a humanoid purr as Harry had ever encountered, almost licking across his nerves in a rasp of silk on skin.

It instantly made Harry’s instincts war between wanting to jump on him and get as far away as possible while his apparently overactive libido that hadn’t been nearly so troublesome before coming to St. Louis just whimpered in want between the _eyes, the voice, the face_ , just _guh_.

He was easily the most beautiful and more _beautifully seductive_ person Harry had ever seen, even beating the gorgeous redhead with lilac eyes who worked for him or Rafael who was _rawer_ and more visceral in his appeal than Jean-Claude’s honed appearance and presentation.

Rafael was sweat, sunshine, and sex.

Jean-Claude was silk sheets, velvet chocolate, and seduction.

“Charmed, I’m sure.” Harry cocked a brow at the vampire whose smile turned a bit bemused when a wave of that power threaded in his voice reached out and tried - more directly this time - to roll over his shields. If his voice was like silk on skin, his power was a wash of heat. Useless against Harry’s ironwill and Occlumency, but it seemed _fitting_ somehow for Jean-Claude anyway.

“Don’t try and roll him, Jean-Claude.” Sirius actually _did_ sigh this time as he caught a brush of it as it reached for Harry. “Mind control is even less effective on him than it is on me.”

“Truly?” Jean-Claude had been interested in Harry before he met him because his manner of arrival in the city and possible connection to Sirius _was_ of interest to his affairs. Now that he’d met him, however, scented the power hidden in his veins that was an even more potent variety than his godfather’s, and seen the _appetizing_ form it was wrapped in, he was _intrigued_. That his friend’s _filleul_ shared his immunity to being mentally rolled, coerced, or controlled was simply the proverbial cherry on top. “ _Intéressant_. And the matter of the protections, _mon ami?”_

“Sirius isn’t the only one who knows his way around wards.” Harry commented, ignoring the fact that he’d walked through them as if they weren’t even there in the first place. “Most are keyed to prevent specific forms of harm. If I tried something that went against them, they’d…” Harry turned and lifted his head, narrowing his eyes for a moment as he read what he could of the wards without seeing the actual anchors. “Knock me out, probably, but I know better than to risk riling up Black wards so I’d rather _not_ test that.”

“Did some studying with the old crowd, pup?” Sirius asked mildly despite being rabidly curious about, well, _everything_ that Harry had gone through and learned since his not-a-death.

“Not exactly.” Harry wasn’t about to get into his adventures in time-turner abuse in the office of a strange vampire, friend of Sirius’s or not. “We _do_ have a lot to catch up on.”

Mollified over the wards, and knowing the value of patience and timing, Jean-Claude was quick to wave them away for their reunion.

He knew when others were dancing around a subject or trying to be circumspect.

Let them keep their secrets for now.

In time, eventually all things generally become clear.

That it also gave him time to debate the risk versus reward of wooing the _petit sorcier_ and also plan his gentle assault to his desirous-but-wary defenses was a side-benefit of being understanding and generous of their reunion.

…

By mutual agreement with not even a word spoken between them, Sirius led Harry easily out of the club via the emergency - or employee as Sirius explained - exit/entrance that led to the alley behind the building and off towards the street.

A couple of blocks later he led him to another alley door attached to what looked like a thriving pub. This door however led to a little foyer with stairs going up and down and no apparent access to the interior business of the building. Harry followed Sirius up, though a glance at the stairs leading down almost gave him a headache from the heavy protections on them.

More of Sirius’s work if he had to guess, like the building they were in in general.

Or the flat that Sirius steered him into on the left side of the landing.

There were more wards there, much more than the door to the right, but with how much danger Sirius had been in for most of his life that wasn’t anymore surprising than Harry’s own instincts to protect his home before just about anything else.

These were a different sort of wards than the ones Harry used, less intuitive and more reactive like the work on the club or this building as well, but he thought that was just as likely because of a difference between his and Sirius’s personalities than it was anything else.

Certainly not a mark of Sirius’s capabilities, given that the wizard had easily dueled Lucius Malfoy to a defeat and _that_ was after sneaking up on him and flooring him with a single punch.

_Capable_ was one of the lesser traits of Sirius Black’s abilities with a wand, as both his kill record with the Order and his arrest record from his time as an Auror could attest.

Sirius led him into the flat after some fiddling with the wards to give him general permissions instead of a single visit pass, Harry finding himself pleasantly surprised by the bright and open loft given that what he’d seen of the Riverfront District so far seemed to be geared toward darker tones and colors.

Except for Jean-Claude’s white-and-black office anyway but everything else about _Guilty Pleasures_ had been geared towards an impression of darkness and shadows.

And the things that could happen within them.

“Is that my shirt?” Sirius asked as he went straight for what looked like a well-stocked bar cart as his pup gazed around at the white or cream walls, cream or pale blue or green furniture and curtains, and the copper exposed pipe and creamy-beige brickwork of his loft. 

He hadn’t paid too much attention to Harry’s clothes, too focused on that Harry was _here_ , but now that he was looking at him with a moment to think he was relatively certain that both those jeans and shirt had been from his rebellious teen years and likely left behind when he ran away to the Potters.

Harry glanced down at the faded red of the Gryffindor long-sleeved thin sweater, barely more than a t-shirt, complete with their House emblem on the chest of a golden shield outline surrounding a rearing lion.

Taking the offered snifter glass of what looked like brandy, or maybe cognac - the portraits despaired of his palette for alcohols - he gave an agreeing smile-shrug combination that had Sirius barking another of his infamous laughs as they sat on opposite sides of Sirius’s long cream leather settee facing each other instinctively.

“And…” Sirius drawled, taking a closer inspection. “Those are my jeans as well though I suspect a sizing charm and those are,” he reached out and grabbed Harry’s near-leg, tugging it closer and spying the Black crest nearly hidden on the silver lace hooks. “My _father’s_ best dragonhide everyday boots.” Sirius arched a brow at his godson. “Been pillaging the closets at the old pit along with learning new tricks, have you pup?”

“A lot’s happened, Padfoot.” Harry took a sip of the - cognac, as it turned out once he actually tasted it - and braced himself for what was no doubt going to be a _long long_ uncomfortable talk.

But he’d suck it up and get it done and over with.

He’d found him.

He was with his godfather.

Between the two of them, he doubted there was anything in this new world that they could throw at them and not survive.

It was how Sirius would react to _him_ and his choices that was suddenly having his stomach tie itself in anxious knots.

“And to be honest,” he glanced helplessly at his godfather who looked _so good_ as if a decade or more had sloughed right off of him without the threat of being tossed back in Azkaban or the war hanging over him and time to heal. “I don’t think you’re going to like or approve of most of it or the choices I’ve made.”

“Listen to me, Harry.” Sirius set his glass aside, turning to face his pup fully and resting one tattooed hand - runes on his knuckles and down the bones of the back of his hand - on his knee reassuringly. “There is nothing you could have done that would turn me away from you. _Nothing_ in either world. Do you hear me pup?” He asked fiercely intense as was often his way when something actually _mattered_. “Nothing at all. You could’ve teamed up with ol’ Noseless himself or eloped with Prissy Cissy’s ponce of a son or sired a lovechild on Batty Bella and I would still love you and be proud of the man you’ve become.”

Considering how Sirius felt about both Voldemort _and_ those particular Black cousins, that was one hell of a statement to make.

They were extreme examples but Harry was very much his parents’ child in temperament with a dash of Black flare and a healthy heaping of his own uniqueness.

When it came to that streak of worrying over what those he loved thought about him though?

_That_ was James through and through. If Sirius had been the rebellious unwanted heir, James had been the much-desired golden child of his parents. He’d grown up assured of his place in society and his own worth, yes, but there was still an anxiety attached to having the weight of generations resting on your shoulders _alone_. Even Sirius had had Regulus and a variety of cousins to help carry the load. When it came to the Potter name and their glorious Light legacy it had _all_ come down to James.

It pushed James to do more, to be the best, never able to falter or fail.

It also led to insecurities he tried to push down through behavior that Harry’s scolding had made clear to Sirius - whose moral compass was right fucked over before he ever even got to Hogwarts and he knew it - was pure bullying.

Harry laughed at the thought of eloping with Draco - even if he was quite pretty when he wasn’t sneering - and then gagged at the idea of fucking Bellatrix.

One of the lessons he’d learned _outside_ of Grimmauld Place during his forays into the muggle London club scene had been at the teaching of one of his casual hookups who’d pulled him back when he saw Harry eyeing up a _very_ pretty bloke their age with pouty lips and washboard abs shown off in a cut-off tank top.

It was succinct but it stayed with him:

_“Don’t stick your dick in crazy.”_

And Bellatrix Black - before she’d gone to Azkaban - screamed crazy to the point that he wouldn’t have been shocked if before her death she’d spelled her private parts to bite off any cock that didn’t belong to her precious Dark Lord.

Including her husband’s which would explain why the elder LeStrange had been his own special brand of pissed off and insane.

“Nothing like that, Sirius, neither are really my type.” Harry wrinkled his nose. “And I didn’t team up with Tom either…”

“Well, then.” Sirius squeezed his knee then picked up his drink and saluted his pup cheerfully. “How about you hit the high notes like, for instance,” he sent Harry a _look_ , “how the _hell_ you got here? They didn’t…”

He couldn’t even finish the thought, a dozen worsening scenarios based off how _Sirius_ had ended up in this world flashing through his mind.

“No, no one tossed me through the Veil, Sirius.” Harry rushed to banish that thought from his godfather’s mind. Sirius likely still had more than enough nightmares from his stint in Azkaban to add worries about Harry being executed to the mix. “Or executed me or anything like that. I chose to come here, Sirius, I chose to follow you.”

Sirius blinked in surprise, doing a quick mental calculation of how much he’d had to drink that day and coming up with the woeful truth that he was regretfully sober and hadn’t imagined his pup’s statement.

“You _what?!”_

Harry sighed, frowning, and tossed back the rest of his drink.

Yeah.

He’d thought that part in particular would go over about as well as laughter at a state funeral.

…

It took another round of cognac and several more assurances that Harry was neither insane nor had he been executed or mind-controlled into willingly walking to his death before Sirius calmed down enough to listen to Harry’s tale.

Or the highlights anyway, if he went into four years of magical study and muggle shenanigans they’d be there talking for days.

“You remember how angry I was all that last year, Sirius.” Harry blew out a bracing breath through his nose, working to keep his breathing slow and even. “Well, after you fell into the Veil we _all_ thought you were dead, even me, and I…” He shrugged, debating a moment, then decided to supply the best example he had for how truly furious he’d been. “I used the Cruiciatus on Bellatrix, Sirius, _that’s_ how unhinged I was at first and I didn’t really _get any better_ until after she died.” He braced himself, staring straight at the man who looked so much like his Sirius but with a few differences that _shouted_ how much strain he’d been under in their old world. Like his dark tan from plenty of time under the summer sun, or the smooth cheeks that didn’t seem sunken or eyes that carried significantly less shadows. “After I killed her.”

Sirius lifted his brows a bit in surprise - but at the same time he wasn’t shocked.

He’d always been far more pragmatic than the majority of the magical folk Albus _allowed_ to have contact with Harry. There’d been a couple like him in the Order. The ones that didn’t flinch or fuss or squawk about doing what needed to be done.

Much as it’d chafed, Snape had been one of them and to no surprise Moody had been the other with Kingsley swinging their way more often than not.

Molly and Albus and the rest might have all breathed sunshine and rainbows all over the kids but the rest of them knew better.

Knew that the precious innocence that they’d been so desperate to preserve in the young ones wouldn’t last beyond their first real fight with the Death Eaters or their first real loss.

He supposed for Harry and his friends, it’d been the DoM and Sirius who’d been that for them.

And it wasn’t like he didn’t know Harry had darkness inside them, everyone did.

There were _far_ worse targets for it in Sirius’s opinion than his dearly unbeloved and unlamented cousin.

“How’d you do it?” Sirius asked, not showing - or feeling for that matter - any of the recrimination that his godson seemed almost tensed up in anticipation of. He’d gotten good at controlling those sorts of reactions it seemed. Good. It would serve him well in this world - if he, _they_ were staying anyway. “Killing Curse?”

In silent answer Harry reached for the hem of his sweater and pulled it up over his head then just sat there waiting.

For condemnation like Albus or not, he wasn’t entirely sure.

Sirius blinked then let out a soft whistle, cocking his head to the side as he studied the magical tattoos and runes he carried. _Black_ runes. Now how in the world had he...ah.

“The portraits took to you after I was gone, didn’t they?”

“Went straight there after hitting the bank the last day of fifth year.” Harry confirmed, toasting his godfather with his glass and feeling warm and toasty inside. And it wasn’t all from the cognac either. “I’d had enough of playing the golden boy. Dumbledore finally told me about the prophecy after you died for his secret keeping. Told me about why it’d _always_ been me that Tom had been gunning for, why my parents died, but in my moments of calm between rages, something stood out to me: if it was him or me like the prophecy _implied_ , why wasn’t I being trained?” He asked the question that had led to so many of his choices in those first days of tenuous freedom. “Neither can live while the other survives didn’t leave a lot of room for interpretation with Tom after my head. The way I saw it then and still do now years later is that Dumbledore had a grand plan for the Greater Good. And what was one life in the pursuit of it? Needless to say,” his grin at his quietly-enraged godfather, whose knuckles had turned white on the arm of the settee. “I wasn’t going to be _anyone’s_ gullible little white lamb anymore. When the goblins implied that you were only _legally_ dead, I had a spark of hope and a goal beyond fucking up Dumbledore’s plans and surviving Tom. When I confirmed the bond was still there, well.” He jerked a shoulder. “You were alive and alone. I was alive and wanted nothing to do with the wizarding world after everything it took from me. Everything else kinda spiraled from there.”

Sirius swallowed down his desire to scream and shout and rage.

He was years too late and the targets of it were an entire world away.

Harry was here and now.

“He never told us the contents of the prophecy.” He choked out, tightening his hands into fists before he gave into the urge to snatch up all the breakables in range and smash them to bits. “Never. Just that it suggested Voldemort would come after children born at the end of July due to a risk they posed him. When you survived the Killing Curse…” He shook his head, feeling blindsided and foolish for not seeing how Dumbledore had arranged the world around Harry and all of them so very carefully. “I thought it was done and Voldemort kept coming because of what you represented, not a threat you continued to pose. I would’ve spent more time teaching you magic and less how to ride a motorcycle or stories about pranks if I’d’ve known.”

“With how tight Dumbledore held things to the chest, even confronted with me after I started tossing off his bindings right and left,” Harry ran one hand down the flame tattoos, one of the figures - a falcon - preening. “He just kept ignoring the evidence that I _knew_ what he’d done and tried to batter me back down to a malleable little fool. He didn’t win, obviously, and a few months later I walked through the Veil.”

“Wait, what?” Sirius blinked, flabbergasted at what he’d heard Harry mention off-hand as if it was a casual thing. “Bindings? You had _bindings_ on you?”

The look in Harry’s eyes was dark with tempered wrath as he gave a short nod.

“The Black Family portraits helped me find out a ritual to determine what kind, then worked with me on breaking them and everything else they or we could think of to up my chances of surviving long enough to go looking for you in a different world or time or dimension.” He winced, thinking of some of those lessons. “Nothing we could find gave a definitive answer about what laid beyond the Veil beyond records of bonds - like ours - surviving that suggested there _was_ something. It was worth the risk to me to find you. You’re all the family I have left, Padfoot.”

And it wasn’t like the wizarding world wouldn’t have turned on him in a split-second as soon as a reporter got a _whiff_ of what he’d done and studied while he was in seclusion at Grimmauld Place.

“That’s pretty much the highlights.” Harry shrugged as Sirius was blinking back tears from Harry’s emotional statement. “Was pissed off, found out you were probably still alive, found out I had bindings, worked to break them, killed Bellatrix, fought with Dumbledore, hopped through the Veil.” He did a quick skim of his memories of the last four years. Yeah, that was basically the high notes. “I brought your Triumph, by the way.” He added as an afterthought. “Needs fluids and petrol but it’s shrunk down and waiting on my nightstand.”

Before Sirius could respond to that non sequitur - or anything for that matter - the pager on his counter next to his phone went off in an urgent tone he recognized with a huff of breath.

Pointing a finger at his pup he warned them that their talk wasn’t over, then rose and went to see what the hell one of his many business contacts wanted.

“Fuck.” He cursed, running a hand through his hair when he saw the code. “We’ll have to have a raincheck on my turn, pup. Duty calls.”

…

Harry listened with interest to Sirius’s side of his conversation, getting the idea that his godfather did more in this new world than sell wards and magical protections to wealthy vampires that could afford his no doubt exorbitant fees.

Sirius _was_ a Black at heart after all, he had a lifestyle to maintain which the airy loft with it’s posh decor did nothing to counter that impression Harry had of his godfather.

The man bought him the most expensive racing broom on the market before they’d ever officially met after escaping from Azkaban.

He wasn’t known for being exactly frugal.

With as rare as their magic seemed to be here, Harry could see how Sirius would manage to make an easy and lucrative living performing magical acts that only began to scrape the surface of what he was capable of.

Reaching out, Harry snagged his shirt - or as Padfoot had pointed out, his godfather’s old one - and slid it back on over his head with a moment’s thanks to the day’s run to a hair salon for a style that didn’t make him look like he’d stuck his tongue in a toaster at the slightest disturbance.

“What’s wrong?” He asked as soon as Sirius got off the phone with a clipped _I’ll be there._

“One of those highlights we’ll have to talk about as soon as possible.” Sirius sighed, running up the stairs to his bedroom and calling back to Harry to continue his explanation. What he’d wear to _Guilty Pleasures_ wasn’t exactly the sort of thing he could or should wear to a crime scene, even if he was only a magical consultant. “I consult with a bunch of different people or organizations for one purpose or another. Most of it is like what you saw at the club: magical wards and protections.”

“What’s the rest?” Harry tilted his head as he studied the picture Sirius made with the change from skin-tight jeans and a silk shirt to black slacks, a polo, and a sport coat tossed on top. From party-ready to what he’d call business casual.

“Magical consultant for the Regional Preternatural Investigation Taskforce.” Seeing that while there was some understanding winging across Harry’s face but not full comprehension, he explained further. “Part of the police here, sometimes called the Spook Squad. They deal with anything to do with the preternatural but none of them _are_ actually preternatural so they have a handful of semi-steady consultants they pay on a case-by-case basis to help them investigate.”

“One of which is you,” Harry gave his godfather a soft smile. “An apt fit for an Auror.”

“They don’t know that part.” Sirius ushered Harry out of the flat when he moved over towards the door, forestalling any offer to stay over. “Jean-Claude’s people gave me a background as a private investigator in another state prior to moving here when they cleaned up my documents after I did the original wards for _Guilty Pleasures_. I’m their second-favorite consult after a vampire executioner whose dayjob is as an animator.”

Harry made a face that had Sirius laughing again at the mention of animators.

“Yeah, she’s not my cup of tea either so they try and keep us on different cases.”

“I’m happy for you, Siri.” Harry told him honestly. “This is far and away so much better than my worst imaginings and still somehow more _you_ than the ones on my better days.”

“Thanks, pup.” Sirius pulled him into another hug as they exited the building. “So, should I be dropping you at a car or…?”

“My ride is this way.” He jerked his thumb behind them and back towards the club. “Here,” he pulled out the address he’d had ready and waiting in his front pocket along with the number assigned to his new phone. “Address and the phone should be working sometime tomorrow.”

“I don’t want you to go.” Sirius admitted after a long pause, thumb rubbing the crease of the cheap folded paper. “I just found you again.”

“I’m not going anywhere, not really.” Harry smiled again, tapping his chest where the bond had settled down into a soft contented hum. “Besides, wasn’t it some wise man that told me once that the ones that love us never really leave us?”

“Sounds like a wanker.” Sirius shot back, smiling and shaking his head. “What did he know anyway? C’mon.” He pushed his godson lightly towards the mouth of the alley. “Let’s get you to your _ride_ and then I’ll go meet with the sergeant before his head explodes at the delay.”

They teased and chatted and just _enjoyed_ the ability to both be together and to part without the fear that used to plague every goodbye no matter how seemingly temporary.

“Dolph usually frees us from our grindstones in the early morning when there’s no new rocks to kick over.” Sirius summed up accurately as they came up to a cherry of a bike that had him whistling appreciatively as his pup stopped next to it. “I should be bright eyed and ready for my turn at storytime by the afternoon.”

“See you soon, Siri.” Harry reached out and pulled his godfather in for a hug this time, not letting go for a good long pause, then swinging his leg over the seat of the bike and starting it up.

“See you soon, pup.”

Sirius watched as the man he loved like a son roared away with a grin on his face, then turned with an arch look for the shadows behind him that parted to reveal his nosy vampire of a friend, Jean-Claude looking entirely unrepentant at being caught spying.

Well, spying _personally._ If there was a better-connected or more informed vampire in the City, Sirius couldn't name them. And that was merely going off of his own observations, he'd be willing to take a decent bet that Jean-Claude had his fingers in far more pies than anyone knew.

“He’s not a danger to you and yours, Jean-Claude.” Sirius told him firmly as he flagged down a taxi rather than waste time running back to Dead Dave’s for his car. “And he’s the only family I have left.”

“I understand, _mon ami_ , but it is possible that _She_ will not.”

The look that Sirius shot his friend was _burning_ in fiery intent.

“Dying to protect the ones you love is a noble sentiment in my experience. But then that’s it. You’re dead. And they’re left behind to pick up the pieces and live with your decision.”

“What is your meaning, _mon ami?”_ Jean-Claude asked as a cabbie rolled to a stop and Sirius went to open the door and climb inside.

Sirius looked at his friend - and he didn’t call the vampire that lightly - as he rested his hand on the inside door handle of the taxi.

“By some definitions, it could be said I died for him once. To protect him. To save him from a fight he was still too young to fully understand. I won’t die for him again, Jean-Claude: I’ll kill for him. If _She_ wants to test either of our resolves when it comes to protecting those we love, it’ll be the _last_ thing she ever does.”

Sirius slammed the door and told the taxi driver to leave, Jean-Claude left alone and musing on the sidewalk before he in turn took to the skies in flight - one of his favorite abilities - and landed on the top of the St. Louis arch to do some heavy thinking.

He was at war with himself.

On one hand, who he was - all of him - wished to take his friend’s words to Nikolaos who reigned with a brutal savagery as Master of the City. He knew how she’d take it. Whether threat or dare, she didn’t have it in her to recognize a warning offered in good faith.

It would be her undoing without anyone else having to lift a finger.

And yet...his soft heart when it came to those who were his quailed if only a bit.

Sirius _was_ his friend, unique in his position as someone who enjoyed Jean-Claude for himself alone and not to ingratiate himself with someone of his age and power or was enthralled with his beauty and abilities.

And if his friend truly saw young Harry as a son, then he didn’t doubt his friend’s warning for a moment.

No, perhaps it would be best for the moment to keep Sirius’s warning to himself and likewise take it to heart.

There were other ways to deal with Nikolaos.

Ones that wouldn’t cost him a dear friend and a chance of perhaps _more_ with beautiful Harry.

Jean-Claude could afford at least a few days to watch and see how things developed.

And if push came to shove, there was always the executioner to manipulate into action, as distasteful as he found working with animators to be.

Here then was another way in which Nikolaos was a fool. A necromancer was a necromancer whether their powers were great or small. Bringing them into contact with vampires who were _living dead_ was the height of folly, let alone bringing one into her retinue.

Jean-Claude was old enough to remember what became of mingling with their kind and allowing them into their courts.

As Nikolaos _should be_ but as always was far too arrogant and drunk on her own power to recognize.

She had her uses, once.

Unfortunately for her, as far as Jean-Claude was concerned her _use_ was rapidly declining in preference for her threat to him and his.

Perhaps some of her court could be salvaged, perhaps not.

As it always tended to be when it came to immortal creatures, only _time_ would tell.


	4. Chapter 4

**Ancient Bonds**

**Chapter Four: Preternatural Power Dynamics 101**

Harry fell asleep that night with a raging bond finally at rest and contentment radiating through him.

He slept in peace, without nightmares or bad dreams or any dreams at all.

For once, he was truly able to just _rest_ and be.

…

“Holy shit, pup.” Sirius goggled as he opened the trunk Harry had handed him.

He’d been doing a lot of that since he drove up the new driveway at the address his pup gave him.

Harry hadn’t just gotten himself a place to stay, he’d put down roots and started setting up _house_ on three acres from the wisteria and roses his pup had been fiddling with when he arrived just after noon to the obsidian wall - and the signs outside of it - that screamed of magic and the broken down boxes from furniture and home goods deliveries stacked beside his rubbish bin.

If he’d had any doubts about Harry having prepared and planned _well_ for his attempt to reunite with Sirius the house had shaken them and the sheer amount of silver his pup had handed off to him with utter nonchalance had put paid to it.

Sirius had followed the pup inside, leaving his sleek silver Aston in the drive next to the bright red BMW motorcycle from last night, and gotten the impression that Harry wasn’t _fully_ settled in yet.

The walls that were cycling between colors and effects under various household decorating charms were a large hint, along with the lack of any real decorations beside a cut-crystal vase in the kitchen filled to almost overflowing with a dozen long-stemmed snow white roses and an oiled bronze clock on the wall.

Harry had brought him right upstairs after playing host and asking if he wanted something to drink, passing off a shrunken chest and motorcycle with a grin.

He’d pocketed his Triumph with an answering smile, then enlarged and opened up the trunk with interest to see what else his pup had brought along to surprise him with.

The answer was _not much_ at first glance. Several of the clothing pieces Harry had grabbed from his room at Grimmauld Place, his flask engraved with his initials _SOB_ as a gag gift when he turned eighteen from James. His pocketwatch and the cufflinks off his dresser.

Then under his favorite pair of at-home robes in burgundy he’d seen the glint of metal and pulled the robe away to the _surprise_ that waited underneath and filled the rest of the expanded trunk - the standard kind that fit twice the actual dimensions of the interior.

Silver bars from top to bottom except for the three inches or so of actual personal belongings.

“Pup,” Sirius stared up at him at a loss. “What?”

It wasn’t Sirius at his most eloquent but he felt it summed things up rather nicely since his godson had found him the night before.

Just: _what?_

Including the strange crime scene RPIT had taken him to.

“The goblins weren’t _entirely_ pleased to convert the Potter-Black accounts to untraceable silver and gold, but they did it anyway.” The _for a fee_ went unspoken as Sirius knew how they operated as well as he did. “Most of it I deposited in an account I set up when I arrived. This,” he nodded to the trunk. “I kept along with some more silver when I realized that it was a common weakness many preternaturals share. Just to be safe. I know better than to try and convince you to take an account transfer…”

“I don’t want it.” Sirius proved him right with a huff, shaking his head at the literal fortune sitting innocently in front of him. “I _never_ wanted it.”

“Figured.” Harry shrugged. “But I’m stubborn _too_. So if you don’t take at least this much I’ll just keep bringing it over to your flat until you get tired of bringing it back. Use it as paperweights or throw it in a dusty corner somewhere, or spend it all on muggle nonsense that would drive your mother mad from beyond the grave. I don’t really care. But half the fortune that is mine was once _yours_ and it’s not right now that I’ve found you again that you won’t take at least part of it back.” He flicked his wand, repacking the trunk and shrinking it then levitating it into Sirius’s jean pocket.

_So there._

“So much like your dad.” Sirius sighed, smiling almost despite himself. “But that right there was _pure_ Lily. You win, Harry. I’ll take it. Probably go with the dusty corner option since I’m not _hurting_ for dosh by any measure but I’ll take it.”

Especially since the house made clear that _Harry_ wasn’t hurting for funds either.

They wandered back downstairs, Sirius with a prompting reminder from his godson taking his turn at explanations with a chilled beer in hand as he familiarized himself with his pup’s new home and felt out the protections Harry had put in place.

As Sirius spoke they took turns changing the colors on walls before Sirius won half the downstairs via the kitchen with a lovely saturated French rose when he changed the cabinets from wood to bright snow white to match the actual roses, then swapped the colors for the dining room with white walls and rose trim and details. Harry smiled then hit the family room with a deep blue on the fireplace wall. The side walls were charmed cream, then the pair of wizards saluted each other with their beers.

They’d started the game with a simple caveat from Harry that Sirius absolutely agreed with: no black, greys, dark greens, silver, or gold.

 _Both_ of them, even with Sirius having had four years away, were more than tired of the decor at Grimmauld Place and the gloomy air the place carried.

“So,” Harry summed up as they tossed their empties in the glass recycling bin. Which, honestly, Harry will use for spell materials before he actually took it to the road for pick up but appearances had to be maintained even if he had no intention of hiding his nature in this new world that was in its ways far more welcoming of him than his old one. “They have no idea what you can do beyond wards and protection spells? None at all?” He blinked.

That was far more restrained than he’d figured on from Sirius but he supposed the older wizard _did_ have it in him to be discreet. He had successfully hidden from a man-hunt for years between his Azkaban escape and his trip through the Veil. It just wasn’t where his mind went first when he thought about his godfather.

“None.” Sirius smirked, feeling rightfully smug about that bit of deception. “Besides the immunity to rolling or mind control from Occlumency but they don’t know that’s what it’s called. And even so it’s not rare for strong-willed people to have a resistance to it anyway, I imagine the vampires who know about that quirk of mine pass it off as that combined with having magic.”

“Speaking of which,” Harry said while they were on the topic. “If your Legilimency is decent I’ll need you to test my shields. I wasn’t rolled last night but the _Imperius_ doesn’t work on me either once I was taught to resist it. There’s a couple gaps in my education that the portraits and Black Library couldn’t fill safely.”

“I’ll do my best but it was never my talent.” Sirius promised easily as he straddled a barstool as Harry set out a small plate of nibbles for them to soak up the beer with, both of them having a couple during his storytime. “Any other ways your old godfather can help take up his duty?”

“Sirius,” Harry shot him a look even as he passed over the cheese, fruit, and crackers having made his own plate but with some veg as well. “The deck was stacked against you from the start. And if you _hadn’t_ been my godfather I never would’ve had access to the knowledge I need to live my life the way I want it. You kept me from going utterly mad or enraged even if you weren’t always physically there. Don’t you _ever_ doubt that while you may not have been the godfather you _wanted_ to be, you were the one I _needed_ when I needed you.”

“Still those _muggles_ …”

“As long as Dumbledore was alive,” Harry interrupted a rant about Sirius’s self-perceived many personal failures when it came to Harry. He’d pass on hearing Molly Weasley and Dumbledore and everyone else that helped keep Harry ignorant and stupid pouring out of his godfather, thanks. “I was always going to be placed there. _Always_. He wanted someone that on one hand he could use as an idol and weapon and on the other as a sacrifice for his Greater Good. There’s _no way_ he would’ve let you have more access to me than you had no matter _what_ choices you made differently. He wanted me to have things to _die_ for, not live for, Sirius.”

He let that sink in then added lightly.

“But if you’re in a teaching mood I never learned to Apparate.”

Sirius barked a laugh, shaking his head.

“Alright pup, we’ll do that. Add in learning how to drive a car if you,” he nodded when Harry shook his head. “Yes, driving a car because that pretty toy you have outside is _not_ going to be what you want for your only form of transport as soon as the weather gets nasty.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“What are you planning to do about your magic, pup?” Sirius asked, well, _seriously._ “It’s far too late to hide it if that was your plan. And even if you could, vampires and weres here can _smell_ magic on a person even if some of them don’t always know that’s what they’re picking up on.”

Harry sighed, rubbing one hand over the top of his head as he wrinkled his nose.

“I honestly don’t know. I’ve no desire to take up any of the public professions that cater to magic, passing myself off as a psychic, and I’ve learned far too much about magic to be comfortable delving into animation.” He grimaced. “That’s just...a bad idea all around.”

“From what I can tell their magic works different from ours.” Sirius told him, though he shared his pup’s distaste. “A much smaller core to pull from when they have any real innate ability. Less chance of corruption.”

“Still,” Harry shrugged. “It’s not safe for someone like me to dabble with necromancy unless you want a Dark Lord running about. Souls should be left the fuck alone, especially once they’ve gone to rest.”

Sirius mused on the problem for a moment, then made what he saw as the best suggestion for the time being until Harry really got settled in.

“We’ll say you’re here to learn from me.” Sirius told him. “Done with school back home, ready to learn my trade. It’ll put you around a mix of vampires and weres and non-bigoted humans for the most part and _should_ keep anyone from troubling you too much if they think you’re an apprentice who doesn’t quite know what to do with that power you have.” He smirked at his pup, arching a knowing brow. “That some of our runes match should help sell the story.”

“I’m sentimental.” Harry protested lightly then glanced at the clock and winced, Sirius looking at him in question. “And I need to shower before I get ready.”

“Get ready?”

Harry blushed though it was harder to tell than it used to be, once again ruffling the mess of thick, wide curls on the top of his head.

“I, uh, I have a date.”

Sirius let out a wolf-whistle clapping his hands in genuine enjoyment at his pup’s bashfulness - and more than a little proud about his ability to land a date.

“With who?” His eyes landed on the roses, jerking his chin at the vase on the kitchen island behind Harry. “Roses?”

“Ah, no, actually.” Harry averted his eyes, almost fidgeting. “Those are from someone else, a welcoming thing. My date’s with the owner of the company who did the renovations,” he waved a hand at the room in explanation. “He was here yesterday overseeing the end of the job and to go over the invoices and…”

“ _He_ asked you out.” Sirius grinned roguishly and delighted. Not that he was all that surprised. His pup had been a cute teenager and grown into a handsome young man. People were going to want to get close to him and date him. Sirius had also never given a damn about gender or being a hypocrite so he never even blinked about the use of _he_ not _she_ despite Harry having only been interested in one girl before Sirius’s accident and never any boys. “ _Nice_. I know some people in the city beyond Jean-Claude and his set and the RPIT folks. Who is it?”

“Um, Rafael. Rafael Reyes.”

Contrary to Harry’s expectation that Sirius wouldn’t recognize the name, Sirius promptly groaned and facepalmed before saying in a deadpan:

“Well. I know what I’m teaching you first. How to recognize a shifter and their local leaders 101.”

“Oh?” Harry’s voice was a bit thin despite him already having an _idea_ that Rafael was something. Speculation and confirmation were always two very different things. Though he found that he wasn’t put off.

Remus had been one of the best, most gentle men he’d ever known and he was a werewolf - though a different breed than the ones here from his research.

Rafael being a shifter and a leader like his instincts and Sirius’s words implied, didn’t change a thing for Harry except his plan to wear cologne and scented aftershave.

Harry glanced at the clock again before sending their plates away to scrub themselves in the sink and pushing away from the countertop.

“Well, you’ll have to do it through the bathroom door.” He told his godfather with a laugh in his voice. “Because he’ll be here to pick me up in less than two hours.”

“Fine,” Sirius rolled his eyes and followed his pup upstairs. “I’ll do that then starting with the bare facts of the situation. In this case: Rafael Reyes is the Rom of the Dark Crown Rodere.”

“Rodere?” Harry blinked, pausing for a split second as he mentally debated if _what_ kind of shifter mattered to him before continuing on with stripping down inside his bathroom and keeping from flashing Sirius his bare arse.

Maybe it _would_ bother him if Rafael - or any of his crew who he supposed really _were_ part of his rodere or clan - acted anything like Wormtail.

But he hadn’t.

Wormtail had always been repulsive in human form, Rafael and the others were anything _but_ even the ones that looked like regular blokes instead of being hot enough to boil water on their asses.

Aside from the fact that Wormtail and the wererats could both take rat form, he couldn’t think of any similarities between them though it had to be said that he’d never _really_ spent much time at all with any of them, even Wormtail, except when Pettigrew was pretending to be an ordinary rat and pet.

Which anyone, he thought, would agree didn’t exactly count.

“Clan of wererats.” Sirius confirmed, raising his voice to be heard over the patter of the shower as he poked about Harry’s scantly-furnished bedroom, eventually entertaining himself with the contents of his closet and trying to guess at whose closet Harry had pillaged the various mis-matched contents from before hitting them with tailoring and/or sizing charms. “The Rom is their penultimate alpha or King. At least when you decide to jump in you do so head first, I’ll give you that.”

“I knew that the preternatural community here was large enough to have political clout and weight behind changing the law, how does Rafael fit into that?” Harry called back to him using a _Sonorous_ rather than strain his voice.

“The Rodere is the largest clan of lycanthropes or shifters in the city, ahead of the wolves and hyenas by a significant margin. The only other group of shifters with more than a single known member that I know of is a pard of wereleopards but outside of one employed by Jean-Claude I can’t say I’ve ever run into one of them or the hyenas at all. For the most part the shifters are all live-and-let-live from what I can tell or have heard.”

“I hear a _but_ hanging off that sentence.”

“ _But_ , when you add the vampires into the mix things aren’t as straight forward.” Sirius shrugged then started picking out a few things from the closet since Harry was determined to go ahead with his date.

Not like Sirius could talk, he’s dated plenty of shifters and even a vampire since being dropped into their new world.

It was the principle of the thing, and more about _who_ Harry had a date with than _what_.

“How?”

“Strong enough vampires - almost exclusively master vampires but I’m not an expert so I could be wrong - have the ability to have sway over animals. Usually a certain species. If they’re strong _enough_ then…”

Harry was able to extrapolate that out for himself as he cut the water and wrapped a towel around his hips and draped another over his head to start squeezing the water out of his curls.

He’d learned the hard way that they did _not_ appreciate drying charms, even the ones specifically meant for hair.

“Then they can have sway over that type of were or shifter.”

“Exactly, up to and including total control, they call it having an animal to call. Which can both refer to the species in general or a _pet_ in particular.”

“Like how a blood mage can bind an element.”

Sirius shot a surprised look towards the mostly-closed bathroom door, then remembered the magical _flames_ on his pup’s arms and rolled his eyes extravagantly.

Because of _course_ his pup would bind the second most difficult element behind earth.

If only because earth couldn’t be bound, earth _was_ in a way that other elements weren’t nearly as immutable.

“That would be an extreme example. It’s more along the lines of their human servants - you know about those, yeah?” Sirius double-checked.

“Not a lot but also not the topic at hand so raincheck.” Harry got rid of his dark five o’clock shadow with a shaving charm and then finished drying off before dropping the towel on his head and eyeing the short mop of curls on the top of his head with the look of a general once again marshaling his forces for an ever on-going battle.

There was something to be said for muggle products however, the _styling cream_ that the barber had talked him into certainly did a better job than any of the old-fashioned suggestions and even spells the portraits had had to offer.

“Long story short, they’re supposed to be a vampire’s eyes and ears during the day. Messing with them can be a serious insult or taboo. Now where _Rafael_ is interesting is the Master of the City is supposed to have rats to call but when Nikolaos apparently tried to bind him to her, she overshot herself. There’s still a link between them but somehow - and there’s plenty of shifters who would kill to know how he managed it - she can’t compel him. And because the Rom’s orders come before her own as she _can’t_ control him, she lost control of the Rodere as well. They can’t act against her from what I’ve heard but they _won’t_ act for her either.”

Well, fancy that. Harry mused, eyeing his messy curls before calling it a day. Tousled was the best he could do, even plastering them down didn’t work for more than a minute or two at a time. 

He’d managed to interest someone who sounds as stubborn and hardheaded as himself. They were either going to get along like a house on fire or spend the entire time butting heads. Either one should be at least an entertaining way to spend an evening.

Towel firmly in place at his hip, Harry exited the bathroom only to find that in his absence Sirius had set out an outfit from the hodgepodge that was his closet.

Jeans worn soft and white from wear, a deep blue button down shirt, with a dragonhide belt with dark grey buckle that he _knew_ had been in his collection of Sirius’s things he’d given back to his godfather.

His dragonhide boots with black socks sat on the floor at the foot of the outfit, Harry rolling his eyes a bit at the extra step but feeling touched nonetheless.

Before he could say anything or ask Sirius a question about the topic at hand, a soft chime sounded in the house letting him know someone has cross the wards...but it didn’t feel like a shifter, let alone one as powerful as Rafael.

“Someone’s coming up the drive.” He told Sirius, the older man already moving towards the door to handle it. “Can you…?”

Sirius waved him off with a gesture towards the clothes laid out for him, Harry smiling at his back.

Even so, he shot a spell at the bedroom door and closed it behind him before making sure that his clothes, boots, and borrowed belt were all prank and/or spell free beyond whatever enchantments he already had on them like the expanded pockets in the jeans.

…

By the time he was dressed and his various wands, tools, and/or weapons he carried all the time were back in place and his wallet and invisibility cloak in his pockets and jogging down the stairs, Sirius had dealt with whoever had come by and was waiting at the kitchen counter once more.

He also had an expression on his face that was warring between amused and frustrated as he stood next to the reason for the visitor: a cut-crystal bowl filled to brimming with fresh violets that matched the vase from that morning.

Silent and stewing on his thoughts, Sirius handed over the card that had arrived with the flowers: another match from the morning.

And...he supposed that secret was out.

“The roses too?” Sirius asked, one hand reaching up to rub at his forehead. It was like all Harry had to do to attract attention and danger was _breathe_.

The worst part was, it wasn’t even because of the new world.

He’d been like that since he was a baby (hello, dark lord anyone?) and anytime he was around anyone or anything even remotely magical it seemed to kick into high gear.

Case in point: the sender of the flowers.

Harry glanced at the card which didn’t have a message this time - even if the last one had only been _Welcome to St. Louis, Harry_ \- just a signature.

 _Jean-Claude_.

“Uh huh.” Harry winced. This was _not_ a complication he needed on top of figuring out this world and a possible _something_ with Rafael.

Sirius really did have a point when he said Harry had jumped in head first, but at least with the too-pretty vampire it hadn’t been intentional.

He’d just _really really_ wanted to find his godfather.

“Preternatural politics part two.” Sirius sighed, gesturing between the violets and the roses. “Vampires. Drawn - one could almost say _addicted_ \- to power. Nikolaos as the Master of the City failed to bind the rats to her. A failure that Jean-Claude did _not_ replicate with the wolves. They _are_ his to call. In total, he sits at about seventh or eighth in the vampire power structure as of a few weeks ago. Not in the immediate leadership or court but also _not_ so weak that he’d preyed on by the other master vampires or strong non-masters in the territory.”

“I’m hearing a but again…”

“However,” just for that Sirius changed his word choice complete with a little sniff. “Nikolaos is brutal. A thousand years old and changed as a pre-teen she rules through power and fear. Having Jean-Claude succeed where she failed means that there’s tension there. If Rafael is a dangerous to get close to because of her, add Jean-Claude and you might as well as paint a target on your back.”

Harry pursed his lips as he set the card aside.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Siri.” He told him, honestly at that. “But I’m done letting other people control me. I’m attracted to Rafael, and he didn’t set off any alarms other than the might-be-something sense I had of him. You saw the sum total of my interactions with Jean-Claude, so your guess is as good as mine there.”

“You smell good to them.” Sirius told him bluntly. “There’s no guessing required. You’re a handsome young man who smells like magic to them. If you’re powerful enough and fertile, you’ll be even more enticing to the weres than you would be otherwise.”

Harry looked innocently up at the ceiling, ignoring that blatant dig for information on whether Harry had been tested as a carrier or not which usually happened after their last magical maturation.

He hadn’t been, he was tucked away in Grimmauld, but he was a blood mage.

He knew.

But either way it was his business.

“Great…” Sirius drawled, able to read the pup like a book no matter what he’s learned in the last few years. He sighed, visions of having to beat shifters off of his pup with a stick dancing through his mind.

And you _better believe_ that he’d be having a _talk_ with Jean-Claude.

“Just, _try_ and take care of yourself pup.” Sirius asked half-helplessly as he stared at the man who his memories kept trying to overlay with the scared teen he had been or the adorable toddler and baby before that. “Please?”

“I will, Siri, I promise.” Harry reached out and pulled his godfather in for a hug. “I didn’t come all this way to cork it after I found you over political bullshit, no matter who or _what_ is pulling the strings. I’m not going _anywhere_.”

“Except on a date with an alpha wererat who you probably smell like lust rolled in sugared catnip to.”

Harry’s expression was full of chagrin.

“Cologne?” He suggested as a peace-offering.

“If you have Reg’s sandalwood that'll be best for cover but not overpowering his senses.” Sirius admitted after a long moment’s thought then turned his pup by the shoulders and gave him a nudge towards the stairs. “My tobacco and bay if not.”

He wasn’t worried about whether the scents had gone off or turned rancid.

Preservation charms were standard on the sort of high-end cosmetics and hygiene products found in the House of Black.

That his pup has demonstrably sticky-fingers - though it _could_ be argued that the contents of the house were his anyway - was a worry for another day.

Along with his fashion sense which seemed to exist entirely of whatever he was able to salvage and tailor from the closets at Grimmauld Place, though like with the colognes with the spells and enchantments had actually ended up being quite the haul from what Sirius saw in his closet. The soft fabrics and worn-in look somehow _worked_ for his pup but regardless. There was nothing wrong with buying clothing manufactured in the last two decades.

He’d work on it.

…

Rafael ran his hands through his hair, curls tugging at his fingers as he climbed into his clean work truck, keys in hand.

Two of his people had washed and detailed it for him that afternoon while he dealt with the latest shitstorm of bullshit affecting the Rodere.

As if keeping Nikolaos at bay wasn’t enough of a pain in the ass on a normal day, add in someone picking off her master vampires and making her look weak to not only the local vampire and preternatural community but if news got out to the Vampire Council.

And that was something _nobody_ in their right minds wanted: the Vampire Council poking around.

Rafael knew his history and the tales his people told in the dark as well as anyone.

When the ancient vampires of the Council got involved it never ended until there was enough blood in the streets to drown in.

Rafael wasn’t going to allow Nikolaos to drown his people with her.

After handling that, his date with the newcomer Harry Potter was a bright spot in his day and helped him keep his patience with both his anxious people _and_ Nikolaos.

Which some might consider odd since rumors were already starting to run through St. Louis about Harry. Or who he thought was Harry. But, seriously.

How many strange Brits with black hair and green eyes that smelled enticing _could_ there be showing up in one city at the same time?

It had to be Harry and the rumors - while some of them were likely exaggerated - and whispers that his people carried to him explained a few things about why Harry had seemed a little familiar but smelled so different than anyone he’d ever met at the same time.

Rafael hadn’t been around Sirius Black _much_ but that the two were similar in parts of their _feel_ to others who were Other - something like family was already the consensus - even if Harry was _far_ more enticing in scent than the older sorcerer who worked closely with Jean-Claude but was also willing to provide magic-based protections for anyone who could afford his fee.

That said, it shocked him into stomping abruptly on the brakes of his truck when he pulled up to Harry’s gate and as he physically came a couple feet from it with the front of the truck cab already inside the property, the fence of rough stacked stones changed in an instant to a glossy black wall of polished obsidian six feet high.

Taller than the stacked rock fence. Complete and seamless. The sort of workmanship that just _didn’t_ exist.

Eyes strafing right and left, he saw a warning sign that had him huffing a bit of a laugh and somehow knew that the illusion Harry had on the wall was interesting but only scratched the surface of what the protections on the property were capable of.

Yeah, he was involved somehow with Sirius Black alright, he shook his head and gently continued down the drive just in case his date had any more surprises waiting for him.

The only time he’d seen something like that before, the illusion was stationary and not a vampire trick via the protections Black had put on the staff hallway in _Guilty Pleasures_ to keep people from seeing the door to Jean-Claude’s office until they were on the staircase.

Or at least that’s what happened to him last time he went to see the master vampire.

He imagined that if he hadn’t been invited that the reaction would be a _lot_ different than just not being able to see the door until he got close to it.

There weren’t any other surprises waiting for him outside from what he could see or overt changes from when he’d been there two days ago other than a motorcycle that was resting on its kickstand by the porch stairs instead of parked in the two car garage that was detached from the house.

It was clean and painted to match but was a clear late addition to the property and about as basic as it got with a concrete slab and manual door.

Nicer than the ramshackle shed out back but not nearly as well designed or built as the house.

Rafael checked that the cuffs of his brick-red button down were still crisply folded in place just below his elbows, brushing out the creases in his black jeans as he climbed out of the truck cab with his sunglasses blocking out the glare of the late evening sun.

When his date opened the door as he strode up onto the porch from the short brick path to the circular drive, he smiled reflexively - and appreciatively - at the sight of Harry.

On the smaller side - lithe, like a runner with hidden muscle shown off this time by the cut of his own button-down shirt and soft jeans that cupped him in _all_ the right places - Harry was more than attractive enough in looks _and_ scent even when he muted it with cologne that a bit of fuss and drama over having a stranger moving to town was worth it.

Even if he _did_ come attached to an irreverent asshole like Sirius Black who had a tendency to stare right at the most dangerous vampires in town and _laugh_ at their attempts to roll him.

“Hi,” he said, smile widening as Harry’s eyes seemed to stutter a moment over his face and how the fabric of his shirt pulled a bit as he moved over his shoulders and the muscles of his arms.

“Hi.” Harry smiled back almost helplessly, dazzled anew at the white teeth flashing against tanned skin and how it lit up Rafael’s already unfairly handsome face.

…

Harry stepped out of the house, closing the door behind him after he snapped himself out of his temporary Rafael-induced-daze.

He didn’t bother to lock it behind him as his hand fell away from the handle, feeling the locks and wards snap into place, Rafael not commenting on what to most would seem a massive lapse in simple, common sense safety measures.

But according to Sirius, Rafael wasn’t _most_ and Harry would be disappointed in how lycanthropy works in this world if _the alpha_ wererat in the city wasn’t magical enough to see through his anti-muggle protections when the way Sirius made it sound they knew when someone was magical.

“You look great, Harry.” Rafael told him, reaching out and just brushing his hand along the back of his arm as they walked in unison over to his truck. “Settling in okay, no problems?” He opened the passenger door and didn’t even pretend to not be looking at Harry’s ass as he climbed up into the cab, firmly shutting the door after him and smoothly rounding the hood to take his own place in the driver’s seat.

“Not yet.” Harry told him, taking in the clean interior that was free of any of the construction dust or grit that he’d expect, right down to the dash shining under a coat of what was some kind of muggle chemical protectant. “But I haven’t been in town very long, I’m still trying to get the lay of the land.”

“Well, if you need any help with that…” Rafael let the offer hang in between them, not trying to pressure him one way or another.

“I didn’t move here entirely alone, Rafael.” Harry let him down gently. “But thank you.”

“What does bring a handsome Englishman with _excellent_ taste in dates to St. Louis?” Rafael grinned when Harry rolled his eyes at his grandstanding. “I don’t think you ever said when we were talking about the work you wanted done. Just a lot of _cost is no object, I’ll put in a call, the funds will be transferred immediately_.”

Harry laughed despite himself at Rafael’s Americanized attempt at a posh accent that was a bloody awful meshing of Harry’s muddled mess and Siri’s upper crust pureblood plus what was undoubtedly some BBC influence.

“Family.” Harry said once he’d gotten his funny-bone under control, clueless to how the joyful sound made something warm and bright flare to life from the simmer of attraction mingled with interest Rafael had felt since the moment they’d met. “Unfortunately I come from a rather scantly populated family tree in recent years, when I finished school I came to reconnect with the little that I have left and learn a few things that left gaps in my education that only family can help with where I’m from.”

“You’re talking about Sirius Black.” Rafael didn’t see the point in pretending _not_ to know who he was talking about, even though it breached the unspoken detente the preternatural all observed when dealing with new players. “You _are_ related to him.”

“Rumors already?”

Rafael chuckled, caught. “In St. Louis nothing much stays secret for long if it happens in even a semi-public area. You weren’t exactly discreet with how you’ve tossed money around and hunting him down almost as soon as you hit the city. There’s a lot of speculation about you and word travels fast.”

“Especially when one is the Rom.” Harry shot him a half-knowing half-flirtatious look from under lowered black lashes. “It’s good to be King, right?”

The king in question shrugged a shoulder, not bothering to deny it.

At least he wouldn’t have to feel guilty later for taking advantage of a young man out of his depth.

…

The restaurant was perfect: just a little up-market with low lighting and enough space between tables and booths that the atmosphere tended towards cozy and intimate instead of crowded.

So, Harry came to find, was the company.

It was clear that there were questions lurking behind Rafael’s warm brown eyes, but he didn’t ask anything about his magic.

They kept to safer topics for public, some standard “date” questions that Harry was familiar with from when he’d mix and mingle in London as a prologue to a pickup while others were deeper and more insightful than he was used to.

He’d never had a one-nighter fail to ask about the scar on his face for example, while Rafael almost seemed blind to it for all the attention he paid to it.

Harry knew what it looked like when people didn’t _know_ what caused that. Whether staring out of curiosity or compassion or some morbid fascination they _always_ stared. He’d grown out of being touchy about it but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it when someone he was flirting with paid more attention to _it_ than to him.

And they made each other really _laugh_ , even if just about a silly social gaffe Harry had run into since landing in St. Louis, or at a story about some hijinks one of Rafael’s _friends of the family_ \- which Harry took to mean subordinates given the tone of the story - had gotten into recently trying to sneak into a club despite being a teenager.

By the time they’d filled up on excellent sharing dishes of Moroccan origin and cooled the heat from the spices with servings of _riz bi haleeb_ , a rice pudding with cinnamon, orange blossom water and a large helping of fresh crushed pistachio for dessert, Harry had had a better time sharing a meal with Rafael than getting naked and getting off with some of his past indulgences.

It in turns made him excited to find out if their chemistry would carry into the bedroom and apprehensive because there was _no way_ it could.

There _had_ to be something wrong with Rafael, some skeleton in the closet that would ruin him for Harry.

Though considering the tense state of things as Sirius explained them with the Master of the City and Rafael’s status as Rom...he _wasn’t_ all that perfect, was he?

On a personal, intimate level thus far Harry would admit that he’d blown his previous experiences out of the water and they hadn’t even kissed yet.

But when it came to _who they were_ outside of just Rafael and Harry...okay yeah.

There it was.

Harry had chucked it all and ran away to a literal _other world_ to escape the sort of expectations and strings that came with having his name and fame and power.

Partly to reunite with Sirius, true.

But _also_ to win his personal agency and freedom.

Rafael was _the alpha_ , no matter how much Harry might wish otherwise, he came loaded down with tons of problems, responsibilities, and expectations commensurate to his station and power in the city as the leader of his Rodere.

The question he struggled with and had him going quiet on the drive back to his home was then: was Harry willing to risk being tied back down by a whole _new_ society after he just cut himself free of the old one?

Yes, it was _one date_ and he was jumping leagues ahead of himself.

But it was a question that had to be asked and answered.

 _Especially_ if Harry didn’t want to wake up again, weeks or months or years down the road, and realize that he’d chucked away everything he’d worked and fought for, for _years_ , because he liked the way a pretty man smiled at him and made him laugh.

…

“You’re quiet.” Rafael brought up the elephant in the room - or in the truck, rather - as he pulled up in front of Harry’s house and shifted into park. “Is something wrong? Something I said?”

He couldn’t think of anything that Harry’s scent had gone off on, even with it partially covered and muted by the spiced scent he wore and then ended up being added to because of Rafael’s choice of restaurant.

Another were might’ve had issues but wererats had the best noses of any species and Rafael hadn’t taken and _held_ Rom despite Nikolaos’s issues with him by a fluke.

Harry didn’t _smell_ or act upset or angry, more pensive.

There were flashes of other things that gave him an idea of what was going through Harry’s mind as his eyes traded often between the city at night out of the window and studying Rafael’s profile. But nothing concrete or that stuck around long enough to really make an impression in Harry’s scent. Just... _flashes_ , hints. Too much and too many for it to come through as anything but a _thinking_ scent, especially since Rafael didn’t know Harry or his personal chemistry that well.

Yet.

He hoped it was _yet_ and not a _never gonna happen_ for whatever reason that was playing on Harry’s mind.

Rafael didn’t think that was the case, they’d had a great time before leaving the restaurant and Harry certainly _smelled_ and acted attracted to him still, if anything even moreso than the instant reaction of it that’d happened and simmer ever since they met, not unlike Rafael’s own reaction to Harry.

But humans, even magical ones, could act and react in ways that didn’t automatically compute to weres, especially ones like Rafael that were adept with their animal selves and settled into their instincts.

“Not _wrong_ ,” Harry said slowly, feeling his way around the subject. He knew better than to try and lie to a shifter or a vampire, walking lie detectors that even _his_ versions of them were, but that didn’t mean he had to reveal his every thought either. “Just a concern,” he turned after undoing his seatbelt, facing Rafael who echoed him. “Since if I’m reading you right, you’d have no problem carrying me into that house and having your wicked way with me - and/or me with you whatever struck our mutual fancies - but if that was all you wanted you wouldn’t have needed the trappings of a _date.”_

“I would’ve tried my best to talk you up your stairs, jetlag or not.” Rafael nodded with a bit of a half-grin on his face, completely unabashed. “But I _liked_ the cheeky little thing that had no problem flirting back and treated my people like actual _people_ and not furniture despite you obviously having more money than god. I haven’t been drawn to someone the way I am you in a long time, maybe not since I was turned.”

And one of those things he hadn’t shared on the first date was an ex-wife post-lycanthropy so that was a bigger sign of his interest than Harry even _knew_ though he got the jist of it nonetheless.

“Here’s the concern.” Harry took a breath and met Rafael’s gaze head-on. “I came to St. Louis to reunite with my godfather and learn from him as his apprentice. Not get involved in preternatural politics. I like you more than seems rational on such short acquaintance and,” he sighed, dragging a rueful glance over Rafael’s face and what he could of his body. “You’re hotter than the surface of the _bloody sun_ which is patently unfair when I’m trying to make rational decisions.”

“But I’m Rom.” Rafael sighed, closing his eyes slowly and nodding. The odd part was, for him it usually worked the other way around: people pursuing him because he was an unmated major leader of a powerful species not being hesitant about him because of it. If they weren’t automatically put off by him being a lycanthrope, but most weres learn early how to pick out the bigots or the ones who just wanted to bang a shifter like it was something to check off a kinks bucket list. “Politics are a mandatory part of my life whether internal rodere matters or greater community wide ones.”

“Yeah,” Harry’s smile was a weak little thing in the wake of Rafael’s sudden turn into what he was reading as exhaustion. “You are. And it looks good on you, your people seemed respectful but not afraid which speaks well of you now that I know you’re more than their boss. So…”

“Keep dating me.” Rafael felt a zip of hope wash through him at Harry’s impression of his crew.

That he _knew_ his crew was part of the rodere was carefully tucked away for later consideration, since he knew from plenty of exposure and practice that they hadn’t done anything that should’ve alerted Harry to their nature.

He’d even admitted that it was Sirius Black who’d let him in on Rafael’s status.

How then did he jump from Rafael being Rom to the rest of his crew being part of the Rodere was the question - and it was a matter of _knowing_ not of guessing or making an assumption.

“What?” Harry blinked, surprised. He’d heard enough stories to expect that Rafael would brush him off as too difficult or high-maintenance for airing his misgivings after one date. Having him smash those expectations into the dust took him more than a little aback.

“Keep dating me.” Rafael repeated, leaning forward and sliding closer across the bench seat. Not invading Harry’s space or pinning him to the door or anything that pushy, but definitely using Harry’s open and expressed weakness for how he looks to his advantage. “We go out, get to know each other better, do all the dating steps. See if what _we_ could be together as Harry and Rafael is worth the drama of linking Black’s apprentice to the Rom of the Dark Crown Rodere. Date me.” He reached out and softly cupped Harry’s jaw and cheek in one work-rough hand. “Try.”

Harry slowly closed his eyes, leaning his head into the warmth of Rafael’s hand almost against his will, a quote that was a particular favorite of Arcturus playing in his mind from when he’d start second-guessing his decision to go after Sirius:

_For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: 'It might have been!'_

“We can try.” Harry whispered, eyes cracking open.

Rather than answer with words, Rafael leaned over and pressed a kiss that was utterly heartbreaking - and resolve shattering - in its gentleness against his lips.

For such a sweet, simple thing it nearly seared Harry to the bone and left his lips tingling for long moments afterward as Rafael stared at him in the dim yellow light of Harry’s porch lantern.

“Thank you, Harry.” Rafael told him, something settling inside of him as the ironband that threatened to squeeze his heart and lungs to pieces at the thought of Harry deciding that he was too much work as Rom loosened. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

Harry nodded, “might want to make it in the afternoon, Sirius wants to take me around tomorrow night.”

Jumping out of the truck, Rafael jogged around and opened his door before Harry could do more than glance at the release on the inside, even going so far as to catch his hand and help him down for all that he didn’t actually _need_ him to do either.

Harry debated with himself for a split second as his hand was held with unyielding gentleness but unshakable security at the same time.

Then as soon as his booted feet hit the ground he was lifting up onto his toes, hand turning and clamping down on Rafael’s own as he used the hold to balance himself. His free hand swung around to the back of Rafael’s head, fingers twining into ebony curls, and he reared up and _took_ a kiss of his own. There was nothing gentle about it this time. All firm lips and heat and even a bit of possessiveness.

That was just fine.

Despite Rafael’s being a perfect gentleman all night, Harry _wasn’t_ a gentle creature.

He was fire and flame. Powerful, consuming, insatiable. If Rafael thought that just because he’d play the courtship game with the wererat he had a _genteel_ wizard on his hands, he was _dead_ wrong.

And lucky for Rafael, Harry had no compunctions about making that known.

He liked it when strangers and enemies and even allies to an extent underestimated him.

Not people he wanted to bend him over the nearest flat surface. Or to bend over himself, Harry wasn't picky. Most of the time anyway.

“Sweet dreams, Rafael.” Harry said after breaking away almost as fast as he’d taken control, already up the stairs of his house with one hand on the door latch before Rafael even spun around. “Be safe.”

“Sweet dreams, Harry.” Rafael echoed, more shaken than he’d like to admit but willing to play along with the apparently mercurial wizard. “You too. You never know what monsters go bump in the night here in St. Louis.”

Harry just chuckled, shooting the wererat a coy glance as he shut the passenger door and then opened his own to climb in.

“I think you’ll come to find, _Rom,_ that I’m not afraid of what lurks in the dark. What lurks in the dark should be afraid of _me.”_

Without further ado - and admitting that that statement along would give the handsome bastard more than enough to think about - Harry left Rafael at his truck and went inside, closing the door behind him.

Moments later, the sound of the engine going into gear hit him, less than a minute after that the wards letting him know that both vehicle and the shifter had left the property.

He wondered for a moment if it was _fair_ to tease the Rom like that, as anyone with a smidgeon of power would take his words as the dare they were meant to be, especially with Sirius being so worried over him being in danger.

Well, he’d worry about that tomorrow - or never.

For now, he needed to wind down after being revved up half the night by Rafael’s smoky laughter and, well, _everything_.

A trip up the stairs confirmed that Sirius had left his library alone while he was poking around.

Ah.

Perfect.

Shelves to build and duplicate and put in place and fill.

 _That_ should take the edge off.

And if it didn’t, well, he was no stranger to a little _self-service_ when his blood was up and there was no willing body in sight.

…


	5. Chapter 5

**Ancient Bonds**

**Chapter Five: Politics and Other Evils**

Rafael didn’t startle in the least when Jean-Claude melted out of the shadows as soon as he pulled his truck to a stop at his home.

Where he lived wasn’t public knowledge, most assuming that he lived in the caverns that sprawled underneath the Circus of the Damned or perhaps at one of the properties that were known in the preternatural community to belong to the Rodere.

A _wise_ leader in the tense climate of St. Louis’s preternatural community wasn’t loud or open about where they slept and a cautious one always had guards.

Both Rafael and Jean-Claude were wise and cautious, several of his Rodere following Jean-Claude out of the shadows long enough to let their eyes glint in the moonlight before slipping away.

Out of sight, never out of reach or out of touch.

The Rodere was everywhere, they had an ear or a nose in everything in the Riverfront and most of the rest of the city.

Some of his people didn’t understand how Rafael could or would meet with Jean-Claude when he refused Nikolaos over and over and over again.

Some people didn’t understand that there was more to power - and more kinds of power - than the amount or depth of fear that one can inspire in the weak.

“Nikolaos is officially enraged.” Jean-Claude warned his most tenuous ally. 

The line Rafael danced was even more precarious than Jean-Claude’s own. There was much that Nikolaos could do to a lycanthrope without drawing the ire of the Council that she would not _dare_ to visit upon Jean-Claude, for his connections among their kind were vast and reached to more than _one_ member of the Council for all that his _sourdre de sang_ was among them. While Jean-Claude risked his freedom or being sent back to Belle Morte in disgrace - a fate possibly worse than death to most and _considerably_ worse than death to him - Rafael risked his life along with those of his entire Rodere. Though there hadn’t been a strict accounting since Nikolaos allowed the former Rom to increase the Rodere, between the wererats and their animal counterparts, Jean-Claude would figure the shifters numbering at least five hundred strong with the animals they could utilize being in the tens of thousands in a city the size of St. Louis.

It was one hell of a gamble but one that Jean-Claude could empathize with.

When it comes to what was _yours_ , there wasn’t anything a vampire wouldn’t do to protect it.

In this, lycanthropes were much the same though given their mortal nature often far less patient in the matter.

“What will you need from the Rodere?”

“When the time comes,” Jean-Claude told him only semi-cryptically. “You will need to lead someone through the tunnels to _her_ rooms beneath the Circus. From there, the cards will fall where they may.”

“And if you’re taken for punishment before that happens?”

“Ignore it, do nothing.” Jean-Claude shrugged. Two years he once spent in a cross-wired coffin as punishment by Belle Morte. Nikolaos may have a child’s brutality from her too-young turning but she didn’t possess the cleverness that came hand-in-hand with a grown woman’s developed ire. “If there is one thing you can trust in, _l'associé,_ it is that I am more than capable of surviving far worse than the likes of Nikolaos.”

“And if she recalls Seraphine, Janos, _Valentine_ , what then?”

“Then we will have far greater problems at hand than whether I’m locked away in a coffin, my friend. Far greater, indeed when the mortals rain down fire and wrath on us for what depravities Janos and Valentine bring to their city.”

...

Sirius popped up before noon with fresh pastries - _beignets_ , apparently, which were amazing with Harry’s morning cocoa - and a far-too-excited gleam in his eye over teaching Harry how to Apparate.

More, from stories shared by the portraits, with eagerness to watch Harry flounder and possibly-hilariously be subjected to minor splinching.

Harry had a sneaking suspicion Sirius was hoping for something along the lines of an eyebrow or _half_ his leg hair rather than anything actually dangerous or disfiguring.

In the end Sirius’s hopes for embarrassing Harry with a splinching accident were dashed. Between Harry’s mastery of both his magic and the skill of creating port-keys, along with the calm patience of a mature wizard, much of the risk of him forgetting himself and leaving a piece behind was diminished. It wasn’t because the portraits honestly thought he would severely injure himself since as a blood mage the chance of him forgetting anything actually attached to him was scant. It was just a risk to his health and well-being they weren’t willing to entertain regardless.

Despite Sirius planning on spending most of the pre-evening hours teaching him, it took him just a few hops around the his property and then to the foyer of Sirius’s loft and back before Sirius - with only a bit of a pout - decided that he at least wasn’t at risk of leaving a leg somewhere in a rush.

Likewise just before lunch Sirius attempted to take a stroll through Harry’s Occlumency barriers before throwing up his hands in defeat and settling down to help Harry throw together a few bookmaker’s sandwiches and raid his scant and ever-diminishing stock of butterbeer.

“So…” Sirius drawled, almost leering at his pup when they were posted up shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen bar, each straddling a stool and with hands wrapped around hefty sandwiches. “How was your _date?”_

Harry smirked around a bite of meat and bread, rather impressed at Sirius’s restraint that it took him _this_ long to ask even though he could nearly _see_ it picking at him.

Swallowing, he took his time taking a sip of butterbeer, setting down the bottle _just_ so and internally reveling in Sirius’s fidgeting and _need to interrogate the godson, must know if I need to hex the shit out of Reyes_.

“Rafael was a perfect gentleman, Siri.” Harry finally took pity on his godfather. “Opened doors, paid the check, waited for me to get inside before leaving. The whole chivalrous date gamut.”

“Good then,” Sirius almost felt put out that he didn’t have a reason to hex the handsome asshole for moving in on his godson but also glad that the rat was watching his step and minding his manners. “If that ever changes,” Sirius swallowed down what he was going to say at the _look_ that was pure Lily shining out of her son’s eyes. “I will be more than happy to hold your cloak as you hex the shit out of him.” He pivoted smoothly.

Though perhaps not quite smoothly enough as Harry’s look turned _arch_ before he dug back into his sandwich.

“Well then,” Sirius perked back up after they finished their meal and the kitchen started cleaning itself once more. “Two of my godfatherly lessons have been dispensed with, time for the next.”

Harry tilted his head in question, a glance outside showing that it was still some time until dusk when the Riverfront started to come alive for Sirius to lead him on the promised tour.

“Dressing.” Sirius shot his pup a _look_ when it appeared Harry was going to protest. “You own a whopping two pairs of shoes pup. Two. I’m exercising my godfatherly prerogative and getting you kitted out properly even if you never wear half the things that make up an adult wizard’s wardrobe.”

When it _still_ looked like Harry would complain, Sirius went for the finishing blow.

“Some of which, I imagine, _might_ be the sorts of things that would make a certain wererat lose the ability to form words let alone complete sentences if he’s anything like any other red blooded male.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at Sirius then sighed, rolling his eyes and waving for him to precede him out of the house as he summoned his wallet and cloak from upstairs.

Somehow he had a feeling that Sirius had done some calculations and come up with a rough estimate for how much in monetary value Harry had given him in silver and was about to start spending said-amount on him whether he wanted or needed it or not.

At least he hadn’t commented on the palest blush pink roses that were making themselves at home on his family room mantle that had arrived that morning.

Small blessings.

…

Harry’s estimate didn’t seem far off considering the sheer mass of shopping bags that filled the boot of Sirius’s Aston Martin coupe.

His godfather hadn’t purchased the car for practical reasons it was clear to see, with the barely-there backseat, but charms and enchantments handled the issue of miniscule boot-space and kept even as reckless a driver as Sirius safe.

Like with Harry’s new motorcycle, he’d be willing to bet from the weight of the protections on the Aston that Sirius could get run over by a tank or have a bomb planted in the undercarriage and still walk away completely unharmed if with his paint job scratched and dinged.

Sirius also hadn’t learned the meaning of _fiscal restraint_ \- to Harry’s utter lack of surprise - in the last four years and could out-stubborn a mule when he wanted to so he tried to accept the new clothes, shoes, and accessories with good grace.

He still didn’t understand what he needed a Rolex for when he could tell the time with a single flick of his hand, but Sirius had been blending with this new brand of semi-aware muggles far longer than Harry.

He’d follow his lead when it came to keeping out of intense scrutiny by them - even if there was fuck all they could really _do_ to Harry with the amount of protections he carried in his runic tattoos and his other talents.

That didn’t mean he wanted them trying him all the damn time either, so he’d play nice and mostly discrete.

For Sirius, if nothing else.

Running back to Harry’s to drop off the bags and change before his tour - the pair playfully bickering over proper ownership of the leather jacket Harry had claimed and had zero intention of returning to his godfather, _finders keepers_ applied when it came to some of the pieces he liked in particular - they set off on the Sirius Black Approved™ tour of the Riverfront and a few of the businesses in other parts of the city Sirius knew were owned by someone _Other._

It also counted for a run of all the little crannies and nooks that Sirius had warded or slapped a Notice-Me-Not on to use for Apparation points which Harry found funnier than it probably was.

The more he adjusted to St. Louis and the magical atmosphere - or lack thereof in many areas - inside and surrounding the city, the easier it was for him to parse out _their_ magic from the native magics of this world. Harry fancied that before too long that he’d be able to tag a place as somewhere Sirius either had put up protections or spellwork on or visited frequently instead of the wizarding magic being hidden under the various kinds of magical white-noise that initially hid it from him. Vampire hot-spots and gathering places were particularly loud along with graveyards that had had an animator fiddling about with but the sheer amount of lycanthropes wasn’t anything to sneer at either when it came to magical camouflage.

Harry when he wasn’t being shoved into dressing rooms or being stood on tailoring stools in shops was mentally marking out a map of the city with Occlumency and leaving tags - not unlike what Sirius had done with making unofficial landing points for magical travel - for the places Sirius showed him.

If he ever needed to get around the city in a moment, he’d rather have the tags and markers in place than have to rely on a blind-Apparation or driving or even flying if necessary.

His “Sirius Approved” outfit for the tour ended up being a pair of the vintage/salvaged jeans from his closet, a silk t-shirt, and the purloined leather jacket. Sirius had bought him an unholy amount of silk at a boutique owned by a pretty blonde woman who dressed very well in a red business suit with blush-pink undertones. Sirius hadn’t warned him before going in, wanting to see how Harry reacted to her, but he’d twigged immediately that she was _Other_ with Sirius afterward confirming that Christine who both owned and managed the boutique was a weretiger. An apparently rare breed of lycanthrope.

Harry didn’t care either way beyond that her shop had enough things Sirius liked to save Harry a couple of stops at least as Sirius ran through the place stacking the cashier counter with silk shirts, designer trousers - denim and otherwise - among other things for Harry to start filling out the nearly empty closet at his house that apparently offended Sirius’s sensibilities.

He still didn’t know what he needed a cellular phone for when he had a phone at his house _and_ internet, it wasn’t like he couldn’t send Sirius a _Patronus_ or an enchanted parchment messenger like the airplanes the MoM used for memos, but once again he caved to his more knowledgeable godfather.

That the phone in question was ruby red, something called a _Blackberry_ , and at least had a full keyboard made him loathe it off the bat marginally less than he would one of the tiny flip phones he’d probably lose in less than a week.

For a moment towards the end of their walk through Riverfront when they were looping back towards the end where both Sirius’s loft and _Guilty Pleasures_ were located, Harry asked the question burning at him.

“What’s the deal with the demented clowns?” He jerked a thumb towards the dingy sign with demonic looking clowns flanking the billboard advertising the _Circus of the Damned._ “Don’t those damn things give people nightmares?”

Harry distinctly remembered more than one person in his year at Hogwarts having a clown for a boggart.

Sirius barked a laugh, though he also understood the question that Harry _wasn’t_ asking when he’d shown him around everything else in the District, including ducking their heads into shops that weren’t necessarily his cup of tea.

For the main attraction of the area above and beyond the preternatural community itself, why hadn’t Sirius taken him into the actual massive warehouse that housed the circus?

“I’m sure they do.” Sirius told him, then sobered. “It’s owned by the Master of the City and staffed by much of her court or those in her service.”

Ah. Harry understood what Sirius _wasn’t_ saying instantly. Mistress Power Trip’s base was under the demented clowns.

Mark that as a top spot on his _never-to-do_ list while out and about in St. Louis.

Which made all too much sense from what he’d been picking up about her, including trolling the internet for more information and rumors now that his broadband had been set up and connected to the new computer in his den.

Granted, he had to sift through a _lot_ of bullshit online to try and locate a few golden nuggets of information but since he never knew when a golden nugget would save his ass, he considered it worth his time when he wasn’t up to his neck with other projects or spending time with Sirius.

And now Rafael, he supposed, since he hadn’t managed to chase him off with his hesitance.

“Hmm.” Harry hummed under his breath as Sirius turned them down towards his loft instead of continuing on towards _Guilty Pleasures_ and the other more _adult_ clubs in the District. “Interesting concept, I guess.”

He didn’t know that he’d be all that enthused by the idea given the massive signs calling it a _Freak Show_ and his own issues with that word, even if it didn’t play home to who was apparently a _difficult_ master vampire permenently frozen as a pre-teen.

Rather than lead him around back again, Sirius this time took him inside to the pub itself from the busy street that came alive with the lowering of the sun.

 _Dead Dave’s Bar and Grill_ was the locale according to the sign over the door, and the hours posted were pretty much twenty-four seven except for a short span on Monday mornings.

As Sirius pushed through the doors into the pub, it was easy to see why.

For a Saturday night it wasn’t terribly busy, at least not to the point of being obnoxious, but unless Harry was _extremely_ off the mark most of the clientele appeared to be of the _Other_ variety with a few tables here and there speckled with tourists and lookie-lous come to gawk at the _creatures of the night._

It kinda made Harry want to hiss or growl as he walked by them toward the bar as they ate him and Sirius up with their greedy gazes, but he recognized that Sirius had a life and a reputation in the District and he didn’t want to make a misstep that might harm either.

He actually found himself returning a smile and a wave to one of Rafael’s crew, a rather bland but unobjectionable farmboy type complete with patchy tan and sun-bleached hair.

Even more reason to behave himself then.

All of St. Louis might not know that he went out the night before with the Rom but he’d be willing to bet his new ride that the Rodere at least did.

“C’mon, Harry.” Sirius tugged him over to sit right next to the bar bypass that was also kitty-corner to the swinging doors leading to the kitchen from the smells. “I want you to meet a couple people.”

Sirius flagged down the bartender, a large - towering even from Harry’s perspective, perch on the barstool aside - man with deep ebony skin and a shiny bald head. From the cigarette clamped between firm lips and the light sheen of sweat from the humidity in the bar - even their A/C not enough to combat August weather plus an almost-full house apparently - on his head, Harry was going with human. Then he stalked down their way and Harry had to quickly reassess that notion.

With a slow blink to activate his magic sight, Harry tried to figure out what the hell he was looking at.

Because it sure as _shit_ wasn’t vanilla human despite all the tells that said otherwise.

The man didn’t move like a shifter or have the magical presence of one, even a weak one.

Push come to shove, Harry didn’t think there was a natural drop of magic in him at all.

 _Natural_ magic.

 _Borrowed_ magic on the other hand - oh yeah, the scowling bartender had plenty of that but it wasn’t the mix he’d expect to see on one of the ritual-based witches or even vaudun users he’d heard of.

It was something different, something almost intrinsic despite it not being native to the man, threading through him in a series of - he quickly counted, trying to seperate the perfusion of borrowed magic from the other bits - four distinct bonds.

What the fuck _was_ this guy?

Harry had studied more on bonds and bindings and how they could be used, placed, twisted, undone, broken, and so on than anyone else _alive_ in his old world.

And never - _never_ \- in all that reading and studying and learning from the Black portraits had he come across something or someone like... _Harry this is my good friend Luthor, Luthor my godson Harry..._ Luthor.

“Nice to meetcha.” Luthor nodded, already pouring Sirius a drink with deft and knowing hands. “What can I get you?”

“Same and I’ll take whatever you have on draft.” Harry decided, blinking away the magical sight since he didn’t want to be accidentally blinded by the pack/clan bonds the shifters in the bar were no doubt replete with. “Thanks.”

Harry let his fingertips just ever-so-lightly _brush_ against Luthor’s hand when he passed over the requested beer, and it settled at least some of his anxiety over meeting someone or something he couldn’t figure out. And therefore didn’t know how to defend against if push came to shove which _never happened_ since he’d started training with the portraits. For a simple reason. Whatever Luthor was, he wasn’t powerful.

Not like Harry or Sirius.

Not even like the least powerful of the wererats he’d met a few days ago.

He was _something_ but if he was a threat it wasn’t because of his borrowed power.

It was because he was _human_ \- and those Harry knew how to deal with.

“Luthor is Dave’s eyes and ears.” Sirius explained lowly as the bartender went off to see to other customers. “And my neighbor.”

That explained the weaker wards then.

A courtesy to his landlord’s day manager or general manager or whatever the relationship is rather than a paying customer.

They’d do the job to protect the apartment, but they weren’t all that strong or comprehensive from the look Harry had taken the other night.

“Uh huh.” Harry was a bit lost in thought but still paying attention. Just because Luthor _probably_ wasn’t a threat, he knew himself. He wasn’t going to let it go until he figured out what Luthor was in addition to being Sirius’s friend who worked for _Dave_ and lived across the hall from Sirius.

It was like the rasp of a shirt tag on the back of his neck - just that little bit of irritation that if handled quickly won’t be a problem but if left to fester would drive him plain barmy.

He clicked back in when he felt someone more powerful than anyone else in the bar - save for himself and Sirius - move their way from inside the kitchen or whatever back area/staff rooms/offices were in the rear of the building.

With the white noise of the city he probably wouldn’t have noticed something so relatively minor if he weren’t already tuned into the magic around him because of Luthor.

It just wasn’t a big enough surge of power to matter to him normally.

When the owner of it pushed through the kitchen doors and set a platter of chips - or fries as they were called in his new home - smothered in melted cheese and topped with what he thought was smashed avocado, sour cream, and fresh salsa between him and Sirius without ado along with a pair of forks, Harry clocked what had bothered him about Luthor.

 _This_ was a vampire, a young one in vampire terms from the significant weakness compared to Jean-Claude and the other vampires at _Guilty Pleasures_ , and he was the other side of the connecting bonds with Luthor.

 _Dead Dave_ in the flesh he’d imagine, with Luthor bound to him in some fashion and being both a giver and a taker through the bond in an open loop.

Which, granted, Harry still didn’t have the full story of how _that_ worked but now that he’d seen the bonds between the two of them he thought he’d recognize it next time without having to see both ends of the magical bindings at work.

He thought, given the little that he knew about vampires from Sirius and taking what he’d researched otherwise with a grain of salt for hearsay and prejudice, that the pair _might_ be a vampire-human servant combo.

But he wasn’t certain, so he’d watch and study the bond between them, and then see later what Sirius could or would tell him about it in private.

“Hey Siri.” Dave greeted the rakish wizard who’d made a home for himself in Dave’s domain. Though he didn’t kid himself. Even if he didn’t already have a human servant in his old friend Luthor, Sirius Black was playing way above his pay grade. But the man was handsome and as quick to laugh as he was to anger, looked _mighty fine_ spread out on his sheets, and wasn’t looking for anything serious anyway.

Seeing who he’d brought into Dave’s place - and _fucking hell_ smelling them - that what they had was friendship with a bit of side-benefits had never been more clear.

“Dave,” Sirius’s smile was friendly and genuine which Harry took note of, along with the soft note in his voice that used to be reserved for Remus, his only real _friend_ despite the show some of them made in the Order. Interesting. “This is my pup, Harry. Harry Potter, David Riker, owner of this fine establishment.”

“Nice to meet you, Harry, call me Dave.” Dave held out his hand and was pleasantly surprised when Harry shook it. He wasn’t old enough a vampire yet - only a couple years into it - to have stopped using human gestures and manners completely, especially around humans. “I’ve heard a lot about you over the years.”

“Nice place, Dave.” Harry thought that Dave was a decent looking vampire, nothing to write home about, who’d been middle aged or so before being turned complete with receding hairline. Not his godfather’s normal choice in paramours from who he remembered of Sirius pointing out as fit or the stories he and Remus would tell about Hogwarts or if the flirting Sirius had done at Christine's shop was any sign. But at first glance he seemed decent enough and at least wasn’t after Siri for his blood given the lack of bite marks.

He’d reserve judgement fully until he got to know him, but from what he’d heard of vampires - some of it from Siri himself - his godfather could’ve put himself in much more dangerous situations than a friendship with this one from what Harry could read off of him.

They chatted, Dave leaning on the bar and just a bit _into_ Sirius every now and again, as Sirius and Harry decimated what he was informed were the bar’s _nacho fries_ , a favorite of Sirius’s.

Harry learned a few other things just from keeping his ears open that night.

Dave was an ex-cop who was fired after being turned into a vampire.

Which was apparently _legal_ in St. Louis. There was a whole list of careers where being anything but human is a firing offense. Honestly. What the fuck. When Dave was human, he’d probably been scarier than half the creeps he chased, now that he was a _vampire_ , Harry could just imagine them pissing themselves in fear.

Luthor smoked like a damn _chimney_ but nothing happened in the bar room or the attached seating area or over by the pool tables and dart boards - the latter unapologetically set up at distances favoring those with extra abilities of one kind or another - that he didn’t see or know about.

And Sirius was genuinely friends with these two, not an ounce of hesitation or artifice present as he talked and laughed, not even when they headed over to the pool tables and Dave proceeded to kick both of their asses in a display of skill that had nothing to do with being a vampire.

Harry was determined to like the pair for that alone, even if not _knowing_ what the bond between them was bugged the crap out of Harry’s troublesome drive to dive into secrets that were waved in front of his face.

A pesky bit of Dumbledore’s programming that he hadn’t quite managed to weed out given that he was curious by nature, but one he usually managed to keep a lid on.

Or at least keep from leading him head first into lethal situations... _anymore._

…

“Alright, Siri.” Harry sighed as he relaxed back into the settee cushions in his godfather’s loft. “I think you need to explain about human servants now.”

“What, why?” Sirius blinked, feeling warm and whole and relaxed from hours and hours with his pup and watching as he got along and integrated with two of his closest friends. The non sequitur startled him out of that feeling of lassitude.

A feeling that he’d dearly needed after hitting dead-end after dead-end on his part of researching his latest case for RPIT.

Even Dave’s contacts had come up empty but for once he wasn’t worried about his friend when this fresh wave of anti-vampire violence had hit.

The attacks were brutal, that was true, but they were all against reasonably strong vampires - the ones RPIT knew about, which were the first four - or masters.

Not a young, relatively weak vampire who was little more than a baby in their terms.

Which funnily enough made him worry all the _more_ for Jean-Claude for all that the master vampire was excellent at sandbagging his power to the other vampires around, a skill that was quite interesting.

Especially since it didn’t seem to work on Sirius who knew _exactly_ how powerful his friend and business associate was - and how that made him an excellent target for this murderer.

Though as Jean-Claude was rarely if ever _alone_ , perhaps not.

“Because I can’t think of any other bond that works like the one between Dave and Luthor,” Harry explained, a bit anxious over the gap in his knowledge. He’d worked _so fucking hard_ and so _fucking long_ in Grimmauld Place to learn everything there was to know about bonds and bindings only to come to this new world and run almost immediately into one that functioned like nothing he knew.

It wasn’t exactly confidence inspiring to say the least.

Sirius groaned a little, sitting up and facing his pup instead of slouching into his seat.

He wasn’t going to be one of those wankers who patted Harry on the head and condescended to him, he’d made that decision years ago.

That said…

“There’s not a lot I can tell you for certain.” Sirius rubbed one hand over his jaw in a thinking gesture. “They don’t talk about it outside of their own or their human servants themselves. The public explanation is that the human servant acts as eyes and ears for the vampire, performing tasks in the day that the vampire can’t complete on their own. In return, the human servant is protected by the vampire and is linked to them, becoming effectively immortal so long as neither of them is killed.”

The rasp of Sirius’s nails against his stubble was one of the only sounds to break the silence of the loft.

“ _Other_ things I’ve heard,” the sly expression on his godfather’s face made it clear that not all those _other things_ were picked up by Sirius but by Padfoot the lovable stray. Sirius made one hell of a spy when people didn’t know about his animagus form and he had the patience to eavesdrop. “Make it sound like the human servant is an extension of the vampire’s will. Other vampires can’t touch them, depending on the pair in question the human’s words will be taken just the same as the vampire’s. Most people who know about it think it’s just the same as an animal to call but it really isn’t. Well, depending.” He shrugged. “Unfortunately with vampires there’s no sure certainties, their personalities and power play too big of a part in their actions and behavior, especially with masters and those strong enough to even _have_ animals to call or human servants.” He huffed a bit. “I’m pretty damn sure that the only reason Dave was able to make it work with Luthor was because they were already best-friends. It helped ease the bond along most likely.”

“Not all blood, politics, and power plays then?” Harry asked, nudging his godfather and trying to break him out of whatever funk Harry’s question had tossed him into.

“Don’t forget the decadence, hedonism and dramatics, pup.” Sirius shook his head, smiling slightly. “And no. They’re people just like any other race. They have their quirks and hobbies and interests. But there’s danger under the surface. They _are_ predators.”

“Just like everyone else then.” Harry’s quirk of his lips was too sardonic to be a smile, even at the utter cheek of Sirius calling anyone _else_ dramatic. “Only with a different set of instincts to wrangle.”

“That’s one way to look at it.” Sirius couldn’t help but agree. The two of them had seen too much - for one reason or another - of the dark side of humanity to sit up on high and judge shifters or vampires or any other species for their own.

He wrangled his own instincts a moment then couldn’t help himself:

“Be careful, Harry.” Sirius was, ah hem, _dead serious_ in his warning. “I saw the flowers have doubled.”

“I’m dating Rafael, Sirius.” Harry blinked in surprise. “That should tell him…” He trailed off as Sirius guffawed, not even pretending to _not_ be laughing in his face. “Sirius?”

“We just talked about instincts and you think that dating a wererat is going to mean anything to a master vampire?” Sirius rolled his eyes. “Especially with the way most shifters and vampires _are?”_

“Huh?” Harry was blank-faced and more than a little lost. “The way they are?”

“About sex, pup.” Sirius smirked as Harry wrinkled his nose and made a face at him, howling with laughter on the inside that for all his grownup and adultness Sirius _still_ got a chance to mortify him with the supernatural version of _The Talk._ “Really? You haven’t done _any_ research on preternatural culture despite having jumped into dating with a wererat Rom?”

That didn’t exactly mesh with the level-headed and prepared man Sirius was coming to know but it _was_ an oversight that was easy enough to make given that Harry hadn’t necessarily _known_ that Rafael was a wererat in the beginning and things had moved quickly on that front.

Sirius had to give the Rom credit, he wasn’t letting any grass grow under his ass when it came to trying to snap Harry up off the dating market before any major obstacles could pop up.

Like, say, a master vampire trying to woo the object of his desire.

Harry almost got up and walked out at Sirius’s laughter that he took as mocking, mulish look locked on his face, only to be pulled back down onto the settee with Sirius’s arms around him and a leg slung over his lap to keep him pinned.

“Settle down, Harry, I’m not trying to take the piss.” Sirius told him, choking back his humor in preference for keeping his pup from being angry with him or making a serious misstep with his new would-be beau - or beaus as the case may be. “Just a bit surprised. Though I don’t know why, you’ve only been _here,_ ” there was enough meaning stuffed into the word that Harry took it as the world in general and not St. Louis in particular. “For, what, two weeks? Maybe a day shy? You’re just so grownup.” Sirius told him, tone a bit wondering. “Having you not be aware of what is pretty common knowledge about the preternatural - and one of the main reasons the bible thumpers get into a tizzy outside of the basic bigotry - took me aback. Give me a chance to explain.”

Harry stared at him mulishly, eyes narrowed and lips pursed, then he nodded before pushing Sirius’s leg off of him though he made no move to get him to release his octopus-like grip around his shoulders.

“A few things you have to be aware of each for vampires and shifters, which do you want first?”

“Shifters.” Harry told him with zero hesitation, thinking about a bright white smile and dark eyes like melted chocolate. “ _Definitely_ shifters.”

“Alright, shifters first.” Sirius flicked up his pointer finger as if counting off points, releasing his right arm but keeping his left wrapped around Harry’s shoulders. “One: shifters still retain a lot of their human morals in some cases that vary shifter to shifter. In some cases that means they keep the standard heteronormative/monogamous stereotypes and morals they’ve been fed since childhood. Two:” his middle finger popped up to join the pointer. “Their instincts can seriously _fuck with_ those morals and standards. You’ll find more homophobia and slut-shaming with shifters than you will almost anywhere else. Their new drives and instincts conflict with their heads and if they can’t figure out how to balance it all out it can make them the absolute _worst_ to deal with for someone like us. Three:” his thumb flicked out this time. “At their basic, instinctual selves shifters are extremely sexually flexible. They have high sex drives and when not battling ingrained morals, no problems chasing after anyone who hits the right notes for attraction. Which brings us to four:” Sirius flipped his fingers around so that his thumb was tucked in and his fingers were up. “Some species have dominant members and submissive members, no need to guess what your Rom is, and moving on.” 

Sirius did _not_ want to think about what that meant for his pup. 

“Last but not least, there is no set _rule_ per se when it comes to monogamy or relationships with shifters. Some keep harems, some couple up and cleave to each other, some just have casual sex, some need pain, almost all need dominance or to dominate, some have steady partners but will still sleep with other people. What Reyes is, you’ll have to find out for yourself and might want to do it quickly with a vampire chasing your ass.”

Harry blinked, shaking his head a bit as the rush of information dumped on his head tried to organize itself and fall into place.

He felt a few puzzle pieces still rattling about, not quite clicking together, but working to try and form a picture but one thing stuck out.

“So they’re people.” Harry summed up, pure snark. “Shifters and/or lycanthropes are people.”

Sirius made a _snerk_ sound in surprise at Harry’s smart-assed response.

“Moving on,” he continued before his pup got too big for his britches or started to ignore him out of well-meaning - but wrong, so very wrong - assumptions regarding vampires and how like or not they must be to humans because of how he’d taken Sirius’s attempt at teaching him about shifters. The little asshole. “Vampires I know more from first hand experience and less common-knowledge.”

He ignored the coughing _Dave_ that came from his pup, _needing_ him to have this information.

“They’re hedonists, pup, almost each and every one.” He explained, utterly sober and not playing around at all. “They hunger for things that make them feel, that ground them in the here-and-now and not the past. For reasons to keep living despite not strictly _being alive_. Violence, bloodlust, power, physical lust, all of it feeds into the vampire drive to almost prove that they’re still here, that they exist. I’ve never heard of a monogamous vampire, Harry. Sex is a bargaining chip for many, a way to give and take and share power. Blood almost always is a part of it, one need inflaming another. And one thing both vampires and shifters share is possessiveness.”

“How does that work?” Harry had to ask after turning it over in his head a couple of times. “If they’re not monogamous, how and why are they possessive over their partners?”

“I...don’t really know.” Sirius had to admit, rubbing at the back of his head sheepishly. “Dave’s the only vampire I’ve slept with and we’re, what is it called…” Sirius searched for the muggle term only for Harry to supply it with more than a little dry humor attached.

“Friends with benefits?” He suggested with a bit of a leer then kept going. “Butt buddies. Fuck buddies. Permanent circle jerk partners. No-strings-attached for life. A-”

Sirius cut him off before he could get to some of the _really_ descriptive options.

“Yes, that, thank you.” He harrumphed, fussing a bit with his shirt sleeves after shoving Harry over to the other side of the settee. “Dave is the type who was married to his job, _before_ like, and I’ve yet to meet the lucky bird or bloke worth limiting myself for or depriving the rest of singledom of the pleasure of all this,” he waved a hand over himself extravagantly. “So no, I don’t actually know how vampires work around being both casual about sex and possessive. It hasn’t come up.”

“What about Luthor?”

Sirius snorted, rolling his eyes. “Luthor wouldn’t know romance if it slapped him on the arse and called him Fanny. Aromantic I think they call it these days. So a bit of casual fun with me or Dave or one of the weres who wander into the bar is good enough for him when he has an itch to scratch. _That_ one is a perpetual bachelor and likes it that way, gets all the companionship he needs from Dave, everything else is just the lascivious cherry on top.”

Emotions and thoughts played merry havoc with Harry’s facial expressions for long minutes as he ruminated and stewed over these fresh tidbits of information, trying to work his way to a point he _thought_ Sirius was trying to make to him but still finding himself come up short.

“Not that I’ll ever say no to more information.” Harry finally said with a sigh. “But what’s the point you’re trying to make Siri? What is it I’m not getting?”

“If push came to shove and you were seriously dating Rafael and he had a chance to create an alliance that would benefit his Rodere, with the caveat that he sleep with someone or even mate them, he’ll take it, pup.” Sirius told him without further ado. “If he thinks having _you_ sleep with someone will benefit them, even if he was arse over tits in love with you, he’d encourage you to do it. I doubt he’d try and insist, he doesn’t seem the type, but what you have to realize pup that when you’re involved with a leader of the preternatural world here, you’re never involved with _just_ them. Your relationship will never be sacrosanct. Pack, pride, rodere, pard, clan.” He hesitated a moment then added: “kiss. While the shifters are more likely to hold their people above a single relationship, any vampire might do the same, especially if a more powerful master demands it from them.”

“Fuck,” Harry breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I thought about the politics, even brought the point up to Rafael. I never even _considered…”_

And why would he?

Where he was from - whether the muggle or wizarding world in this case it didn’t matter - sexual political games was more the sort of thing that took place in glittering balls and high-profile mistresses and in the wizarding world arranged marriages.

Sex had power but sex _wasn’t_ power the way Sirius was explaining it could be here.

“Neither did I,” Sirius told him wryly, thinking of his own early missteps. “But to circle back to why I’m worried in particular about you, it yes, has to do with your heart, I don’t want you hurt, but more it has to do with your power. The creatures in this world will _always_ be drawn to you, pup. Always. I can hide in plain sight with a charm or two and a casual affair or five. If you let Jean-Claude in, if you get serious with Rafael, there won’t be any hiding, Harry. There’ll be no _point_ when the average creature can smell it on you or sense it from blocks or more away. You’re not ready for that. Not when you’re still trying to learn the lay of the land. _Please_ , for my sake, be careful.”

It a simple, understandable, reasonable request.

Harry’s 98.6% sure he’s _not_ going to be able to honor it.

…

Sunday brought Rafael over after a day spent putting in more work at making Harry’s house and grounds a home, for date number two spent staying in at Harry’s for a meal and then stargazing outside where his new stone dance only warranted a raised brow.

Rafael made sure to get both of Harry’s new phone numbers - and steal a kiss or ten - before leaving, however reluctantly.

Sirius’s warning was playing almost on repeat in Harry’s head but he didn’t know how to bring it up. That Rafael was the first person he’d actually dated instead of just picked up for a night didn’t help. Even if Harry had repeated his one-nights with a few people in particular back in London, that still wasn’t the same as dating and taking things slow.

He knew that Rafael saw the vases and bowls of flowers. Anyone who came over would. And he knew that they weren’t from him.

Why _the fuck_ he didn’t mention them Harry still didn’t get, but it definitely lended credence to the idea that romance, sex, and everything surrounding them were a whole new level of complicated when dealing with shifters and vampires.

Harry hadn’t felt this out of his depth when literally walking into a new world.

And here he’d felt so confident in his ability to handle anything that this new world could throw at him.

As if taking him up on the dare, it’d thrown Rafael and Jean-Claude at him.

Both of whom he’d _like_ to handle very much.

It was everything else besides that actual handling part that was the problem.

Monday brought news of another murder, and Sirius’s request that Harry come with him to take his first turn at playing apprentice.

The reason?

Sirius had gone from mildly concerned to actually worried regarding the safety of Jean-Claude and wanted Harry to see if there were any tweaks he could make to the existing wards on _Guilty Pleasures_.

They were closed on Mondays for things like staff meetings, practice, and a weekly deep clean, which made it the best chance of limiting the interest in Harry they had.

The sound that Sirius made, however, when the _prettiest fucking man_ Harry had ever seen - the redhead with lilac eyes from the other night - opened the door and Harry immediately locked himself down so he didn’t start flirting like crazy with the adorable demon - well, _were-something_ \- that had clearly been sent to test his resolve about his dating thing almost had Harry willing to strangle his godfather.

It was a snort mixed with a laugh and choked back, making those _gorgeous_ damn light purple eyes go liquid and wide with concern.

“Are you okay, Sirius?” The eflin-featured were asked, tilting his head and sending his cascade of silky red hair tumbling over his shoulder.

Merlin. Give. Him. Strength.

At least this time the fey-liked creature was fully dressed and not a g-string away from naked like when he’d seen him the first time, though he didn’t know if a white tank top clinging to his muscular swimmer’s form and cutoff jeans barely covering the essentials were _all that much_ better.

“Fine.” Sirius coughed, smirking at his godson who’d looked like he’d been slapped in the face by a Veela’s allure for a moment there when the sweet kid opened the staff entrance to the club for them instead of one of the bouncers. “I’m fine, Nathaniel. Have you met my godson Harry?”

Nathaniel shook his head and shot a sweet smile at the new face at the club, admiring the bright and deep green of his eyes that were unlike anything he’d seen before.

“Hello.” Nathaniel greeted him, appreciating the face and body of Sirius’s godson. He’d be a hit dancing at the club, but Nathaniel knew that wasn’t for everyone, even if he was handsomer than half their staff. “Master Jean-Claude is in a meeting, but he said to allow you to do your work freely until he can come down.”

“Thank you, Nathaniel.” Harry relocated his voice after letting the pretty man who smelled like vanilla-dipped sex and moved like a cat steal it from him for a moment.

What the hell was St. Louis?

Sexy male central?

Harry blinked, frowning a bit in confusion when Nathaniel continued to shadow them, though apparently Sirius already knew what to do as they came into the main area of the club and found a couple others up on the stage. From what he could tell they were practicing various tricks on the poles, maybe discussing how to integrate him into routines. All in all however, Harry only recognized half of them from the other night including Nathaniel.

One blond with short cropped hair and a sunshine smile who glommed onto Nathaniel while eyeing him and Sirius after Sirius dismissed the redhead - and it _was_ a verbal dismissal - while the third was the vampire bait brunet whose feeding marks and scars were hidden for the moment by a long sleeved t-shirt and sweatpants.

With them were a pair of identical twins with perfect china doll faces and pouty lips complete with frothy golden curls tumbling to their shoulders, and yet another blond though much paler in every way.

The last was the only one who sparked Harry’s senses as a vampire, the rest other than vampire bait he thought were lycanthropes.

Their magical auras gave it away even if the way they moved didn’t.

To Harry’s eyes it looked like the blond vampire was in charge of the practice which was about as far as he got in watching before Sirius tapped him on the shoulder and arched a brow.

Time to get to work.


	6. Chapter 6

**Ancient Bonds**

**Chapter Six: Turning Pre-Teens - Not the** **_Best_ ** **Idea in the World**

Aware of the six sets of eyes watching him, seven if he included Sirius, Harry nodded to his godfather and raised his arms like a conductor rousing an orchestra.

Sirius shook his head, a half-smile quirking up the side of his mouth as his pup effortlessly commanded the attention of Jean-Claude’s dancers with the same ease he commanded and used his magic.

He’d _definitely_ spent years learning from the Blacks.

Harry had had a bit of a Gryffindor’s swagger before Sirius had gone through the Veil, but now he had a _flare_ for magic that many pureblooded families cultivated in their children. Some of them were like a kid’s firework: a bit of flash and bangs but no real _substance_ underneath. Others…

Others ended up like Sirius who got lost in his flaunting and strutting and taunting and ended up being sucked right into what even he’d thought for a moment was his death.

Then there were the ones like Harry whose flare belied the depths of their actual abilities, the flash rather than a showman’s skill to cover over a lack of substance working for him to hide the sheer depths of power that Harry had to bring to bear whether for him and his or against anyone who would set themselves against him.

A few spins of his hands in midair - as if he was pressing against something others couldn’t see - and a clap of his hands had a sphere the size of a muggle beach ball flashing into existence and spinning at Harry’s eyeline.

Sirius had to arch a brow at that. Wondering, not for the first time, just how long the story of Harry being his apprentice would hold water. Sirius couldn’t do that. Couldn’t conjure a visual representation of the wards so far from the actual grounding stone hidden in Jean-Claude’s resting place.

And from the gasps and soft exclamations coming from the dancers, none of _them_ had seen anything like it either.

Off the top of his head, Sirius could think of maybe two or three wizards capable of the same not counting the likes of Dumbledore or Voldemort.

One of whom was Sirius’s grandfather Arcturus - and possibly where Harry had learned it himself.

The other was Sirius’s own godfather and his mother’s best friend Abraxus Malfoy.

Lily might’ve managed it if she’d lived long enough to finish her charms mastery, but that was only speculation.

Given how his pup had learned the _Patronus_ charm at thirteen, Sirius didn’t know why he was so surprised.

Harry manipulated the ward sphere in the air, using a wave of his fingers to spin it or stop it as he studied the runes, magical lines of spell work, even an alchemical symbol or two along with some lines of Latin and Greek that combined to make a sphere of overlapping circles of protection. He knew that Sirius was watching him intently, could feel the others studying him, but he paid none of it any mind now that he was focused on the project at hand. Sirius’s wards were good, reactive against harm and plenty strong, tuned to charge off of ambient magic - both from patrons and staff - as well as grounded in the earth to leech off excess from high days.

An excellent example of wizarding craftsmanship, how Sirius made an excellent living providing such was clear to him.

But like most protective magics, there was always room for improvement.

Particularly with wards where if you didn’t collapse the matrix altogether, adding additional layers of different magical signatures only tightened the net and made them harder to override, collapse, or slip through.

Nodding, coming to a mental decision, Harry gathered the sphere between his palms and collapsed it with another clap of his hands.

“What’s the verdict, pup?”

“Our styles are compatible.” Harry said with their audience of walking lie detectors in mind. It wasn’t even a lie. Both of them cast with a mind for flexibility and creativity rather than adhering to strict guidelines. It made adding layers to Sirius’s wards easier for Harry than it would be otherwise while trying at the same time to downplay his power. Asking Sirius to add to the wards on Harry’s house on the other hand would be like following _Fiendfyre_ with an _Incendio Maxima_ : just sheer redundancy. “I can assist with your ward work while we handle my apprenticeship in other matters.”

As other matters at this point was limited to keeping him from drawing - hopefully - too much of the wrong sort of attention, teaching him about this strange world, and driving lessons, it was a good tact to take around listening ears.

“I’ve never seen anything like _that_ in my life!” The one with a sunshine smile whispered as he grabbed at Nathaniel’s arm in excitement, Harry looking a bit back over his shoulder with a smirk.

The cutie squeaked, ducking a bit behind the taller redhead, not having expected to be overheard by a magical _human_ who didn’t - as far as anyone knew - have enhanced senses like weres and vampires.

“Nor I, _mon pomme._ ” The silk-on-skin voice of Jean-Claude reached them as he stepped out of the shadows filling the rear of the club - where the access door to the staff areas was hidden.

Only, he wasn’t alone like Harry would’ve expected, and now that his attention wasn’t mostly taken up by studying Sirius’s wards he could _feel_ them as well.

The trio with Jean-Claude weren’t a patch on them in any fashion.

Not in power, presence, or beauty; at least to Harry’s eyes.

The dancers all seemed to blush or shy away however, and from the flickers of glances they shot towards Jean-Claude’s guests Harry didn’t have to work too hard to guess why. Vampire political bullshit. They worked for Jean-Claude, were likely under his protection as a result, and though one of the trio had been at the club the other night - the one with auburn hair one step from snapping - if pressed Harry would say that he wasn’t there _now_ because of anything so mundane as his job.

From what he’d learned of vampires it was no shock that there was a full - and likely complex - code of behavior and protocol expected of vampires and those they, as distasteful as some of the implications were, _kept._

Especially in Company, which Harry could see in a glance this was and about more than simple vampire affairs.

Red wasn’t as powerful as Jean-Claude, but it was who he was _with_ that were the real problems and possible threats: one a magic user who _stank_ to Harry’s senses of corrupted magics and the other a human who felt far older than he appeared.

A necromancer and a human servant or he’d eat his boots silver adornments and all.

The necromancer wasn’t much to look at, a bit bland even among other humans but utterly outclassed around those Jean-Claude clearly cultivated for his club. He stank - yes, it deserved to be repeated - with a melange of death and soul and blood magic that made him want to rip him apart. Slowly. So it would _really_ hurt.

He raised Harry’s magical - and just in general - hackles to say the least.

In comparison to the necromancer, the human servant was positively benign - until he got a look at his eyes that were _far_ too intelligent and incisive for Harry’s liking.

Bald, with a face that could be forty or could be seventy, he had hands that made Harry want to never be on the opposite side of a punch or slap from that man as a human, let alone a human servant who’d been sharing power with his vampire master for what _had_ to be centuries from the buildup of magic perfusing his body.

A muggle, whatever else he’d been _before,_ whose borrowed magic was both a curse and a cure. It kept him alive, yes, far longer than his natural years. But it also was a dependency. Without the bond to whoever the vampire was on the other end, he’d crumple like a balloon with the air let out within seconds, maybe a minute or two if he was unlucky and instantly if Fate wasn’t being a bitch that day.

“What kind of fucked up creature are _you?”_ Harry asked, both fascinated and repulsed by the necromancer as Sirius groaned, burying his face in one hand as Harry tilted his head and started to circle the taller man.

Sirius reached out and tried to swipe the collar of the vest his godfather had asked him to wear over his choice of his new silk t-shirts, likely wanting to make a goodish impression on whoever might be at _Guilty Pleasures._

A hope that Harry has blown out of the water with his irrepressible curiosity about Stinky.

Harry moved too fast for Sirius however, which had his godfather looking up with a blink - oops - and probably had a few questions dancing through his mind about what _all_ he’d learned from the Black portraits.

Because, not going to lie, there was plenty he hadn’t filled Sirius in on out of deference for both his peace of mind and heart-health.

Everyone else blinked in shock or were visibly taken aback as with a single circle around the necromancer Harry cut him away from the other two - who were interesting in their own fucked up ways but not _fucking with soul magic_ interesting - and kept circling him slowly after he’d managed to separate him, using his runic magic sight that was still active from studying the wards.

Fascination was being quickly over taken by the near-constant revulsion he felt regarding anyone fucking around with death and soul magic but the question remained: _what the fuck was this guy?_

“Excuse me?” The man in question demanded, clearly offended.

“You heard me.” Harry arched a brow as he came to a stop a few steps away from the other man, not impressed or intimidated in the slightest when the man straightened his spine and squared up his shoulders. Yes, thank you. Harry was smaller than most adult men and some women.

Voldemort and Dumbledore were _both_ magnificent bastards of wizarding prowess, including in height, and that never stopped Harry from going after either of _them._

“What the _fuck_ are you?”

“He’s a necromancer, Harry.” Sirius held in a sigh and came to flank his godson in case the pup’s mouth ended up narking them into a situation. “Unless I’m mistaken?”

“You’re not, Mister Black.” Burchard, human servant to Nikolaos the Master of St. Louis, stepped forward as well, memorizing everything and anything around him to report later to his Mistress. Sirius Black at least was a known entity, one quickly stricken off the list of possible suspects for the vampire killer plaguing the city. His companion, however, was a different story along with being a stranger to the city.

A stranger who could use magic at that.

That word of him had yet to reach the ears of either Burchard or his Mistress _could_ be innocent...perhaps.

His magical display that none of them had been willing to interrupt on the other hand, _was_ impressive, especially his ease with his skills that Burchard had only seen before used by his companion.

And then not in the service of his Mistress.

His Mistress did not _hire_ services, she owned the subjects of her court.

Understandably - to Burchard at least - not everyone was willing to barter servitude for her protection and patronage.

The young magic user snorted softly, narrowing his eyes and then backing away from the newest acquisition of Burchard’s Mistress, Black staying with him step-for-step without falter, made even more impressive for the lack of communication that passed between the two.

A wrinkled nose and expression that spoke of scenting something foul was the final nail in the coffin of any chance of the pair working with Zachary, though as Black worked with RPIT there was still the option of him uncovering the killer slaughtering his Mistress’s strongest supporters with startling frequency.

“His magic stinks like rot and old blood.” Harry said bluntly, then glanced at his godfather. “I think we can cross necromancy off the list of possible careers, Siri.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. As if _that_ had ever been in doubt. The portraits hadn’t managed to kill Harry’s inner Gryffindor that much was clear.

“There’s a shocker.” Sirius snorted, then glanced meaningfully at Jean-Claude who’d just been watching the byplay blandly.

“Monsieurs Burchard, Aubrey, Zachary; please be made known to Monsieur Hari Potter, Monsieur Black’s apprentice.” Jean-Claude introduced smoothly. “They were just taking their leave when we came upon your work.”

If Jean-Claude was entertained _at all_ by Harry’s blunt - and rather rude - meeting with his first necromancer, he didn’t show it.

 _That_ was centuries of playing vampire politics at work keeping his face and voice so implacable, or Harry was a crumple-horned snorkack.

He wasn’t _trying_ to be a raging brat - at the moment anyway - but he seriously couldn’t help it.

Zachary _seriously_ skeeved him out and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.

Or that might be all the time Harry spent locked away with only portraits for company outside of the occasional shag showing, but either way he wasn’t fussed as long as nobody got an idiotic idea in their head as a result.

Like Captain Crazy Pants - or Aubrey to put a name to the crazy - taking a bite out of him.

“I don’t mind an audience,” Harry smiled slightly, lowering his eyes for a flicker of a moment. It wasn’t a bow or even a nod of submission but it _was_ an acknowledgement of who the master in this room and in this power play was. He might’ve chosen Gryffindor but he’d been meant for Slytherin.

And Slytherins were survivors above all else as the Blacks had pounded into his head.

If a flicker of an eyelash keeps the Master of the City from knocking on his door and turning to Jean-Claude as an intermediary instead, then he’d do it without a second - well, maybe not without a second but surely without a third or fourth thought.

“And what I was doing while looking impressive was just a simple way of reviewing Sirius’s protections, nothing more. Hardly volatile or dangerous.”

Jean-Claude rather doubted that, but Aubrey - who owed his allegiance as much to Jean-Claude as he did Nikolaos, with him far less likely to punish him for the slightest offense by locking him away to starve for a time in a coffin wired shut with crosses - and Zachary at least seemed to believe it.

Burchard not so much, but then the human servant who rumor had it was as old as his Mistress didn’t rely on the same tells as the rest of them.

For a human, even a human servant, Burchard was far more discerning than most.

While the reactions of the others around him made it clear that Harry hadn’t lied, he still suspected deception.

Wise of him, as Jean-Claude did as well.

Though he found it just another layer of complexity adding to the interesting puzzle of Harry Potter that he was able to deceive a room full of walking lie detectors with such ease.

Jean-Claude glanced at Aubrey who finished escorting Nikolaos’s lackey and human servant from his business before likely going off to see to his own.

He waited for the doors to close behind them before speaking, his delightful _pomme de sang_ \- his favored blood donor - grinning and casting appreciative eyes at Harry.

The others were clearly enjoying the sight the younger sorcerer made in the middle of Jean-Claude’s domain, even Robert and Gregory who don’t enjoy the attentions of males, but none were being as cheeky as his _pomme_ Jason.

A werewolf in his early twenties, Jason was _frisky_ and flirty and playful, a stark contrast to many others in his pack.

Jean-Claude had been glad to take him as his _pomme_ when their Ulfric Marcus suggested it, lest his sunny demeanor and bright smiles be washed away under the depravities that Marcus’s Lupa lusted after with an insatiability that focused in another directions even Jean-Claude would be appreciative of.

“Shall we,” Jean-Claude turned and waved elegantly in the direction of the staff area and his office. “ _Mes amis?”_

Sirius went first with Harry following just behind, shooting a glance from under lowered lashes at the vampire who slid gracefully into position at his side.

“Do you always send twice daily flower deliveries to your _friends,_ Jean-Claude?” Harry murmured softly, pulled in almost against his will by the vampire’s sensual aura though not enough to be lost in it.

“Have you not enjoyed them, _mon petit sorcier?”_ Jean-Claude purred over the diminutive, Sirius grimacing though neither of them could see it.

“I didn’t say that.” Harry shot back, a smile curving his lips as he stepped up onto the circular stairs and looked back and down at the vampire who stepped back to allow him to precede him up the stairs. Because that wasn’t an obvious ploy to ogle his ass in thin - and clingy - worn-in jeans if there ever was one. “Though I _would_ like to know why you picked violets for half the deliveries.” And he wasn’t even lying. He _did_ want to know. “Are you that good of a guesser or have you somehow plucked my favorite flowers out of my mind?”

Sirius managed to stall another round of what he was afraid would be the ever-scarring routine of a boy he saw like a son flirting - and not doing a half-bad job of it - with a vampire whose powers were literally _rooted_ in sex and seduction.

Though he couldn’t remember at this exact moment if he’d _told_ Harry that or not yet…

“That’s my fault, pup.” He admitted as he pushed into Jean-Claude’s office and sprawled out in one of the chairs opposite his friend’s place behind the desk. His pup arched a brow at him as he stepped over his near leg to take his own place next to him. “If Jean-Claude’s heard one story about my godson he’s heard a hundred over the last few years.”

Harry frowned, Jean-Claude using his vampire speed to whisk around to sit and managing to brush his fingertips over the back of Harry’s neck in the process.

“How would that…?” He asked, confused.

Sirius chuckled, grinning brightly. “You used to go right for Lily’s violets and violas. Would crawl right passed the daisies and lavender and the rest of the flowers for them. And then you’d just sit there, happiest toddler in the world, patting softly at the petals.” He shot Harry a fond look. “I guess some things don’t change, no matter how old you get if they’re still your favorite.”

“Now,” Jean-Claude crossed one leg over the other in a sinuous motion, his leather trousers - Harry figured it was a good thing he didn’t need to breathe with the way they clung to his... _everything_ \- whispering with the movement. “The protections. I am reliably informed,” he flicked a glance at Sirius that was a clear _talk later_ , “that the _voyou_ hunting my brethren remains unfound. As I have no desire to end my existence at the hands of this _tueur d'ombre_ , what can be done to further secure my interests? _Le petit sorcier_ spoke of his powers working with your own, _mon ami_.” His smile was sardonic. “I imagine that such services will not be covered under your usual fee?”

Harry grinned at him brightly, glancing between the two self-proclaimed friends.

“Please.” Sirius snorted. “You know me better than _that_ , Jean-Claude.” His grin was nothing less than pure rakish playboy getting away with murder.

“Your fees are obscene, aren’t they?” Harry asked, though it was more a confirmation of his previous thought regarding Sirius’s business as a magical consultant.

“They could be considered profane.” Jean-Claude told him, more than willing to share the joke even if it was at his expense - much like the fees in question.

“Well, then they’re about to become truly offensive.” Harry was taking no prisoners, not when it came to his worth among this new society he found himself enmeshed in. Or was actively integrating himself in. Either way. “Because as I explained the other night, Sirius and I have different styles of magic, different specialties.” He traded a look with Sirius. “There’s additions I can make to existing wards that Sirius doesn’t have the affinity to cast.”

“Such as?”

Harry tilted his head, expression turning coy. “How would you like all of your properties to be completely fireproof?”

…

The dancers watched as their boss disappeared into the depths of the building with the pair of magic users in tow before returning to their practice - and chatting among themselves.

Well, except for Gregory who never talked to anyone and Robert who was aloof at the best of times.

Alright, so maybe Jason, Nathaniel, and Stephen practiced and talked while Philip added his two cents every now and again and Gregory practiced and glared and Robert pretended that he was supervising.

Mainly because his fiance would _skin him alive_ no matter how mild-mannered the human seemed on the surface if Robert did anything more with any of them _but_ watch.

Jean-Claude and the other vampires in their line were different as Monica well knew, the same with donors, but touch one of his fellow strippers and there would be hellfire to pay from the woman.

To their surprise, Aubrey actually returned directly after seeing the Master’s pets out of the club.

He’d been unpredictable since returning from his punishment for covering for one of Jean-Claude’s meetings that no one in the city wanted the Master aware of, though from what Jason could tell it had been more about Aubrey’s loyalty to his friend Rafael who he’d known since the wererat was a baby than it did Jean-Claude.

Shocker of shockers, Aubrey came over to join their little gossiping threesome instead of heading to speak with Robert or report to Jean-Claude, which made Jason duck his head to hide a smile. Aubrey was on a hair-trigger these days, and would be for a while according to his Master. He didn’t want to upset him and even before his punishment Aubrey could be finicky about disrespect being shown to him or other vampires of a certain age.

Jason knew it was a status thing because he only ever scoffed when Robert showed belly or put up with things that would have Jean-Claude going all icy-scary or Aubrey ready to snarl.

But from what he’d picked up since taking his place as Jean-Claude’s _pomme,_ Aubrey was one of the oldest vampires in the city outside of the Master’s direct entourage.

If Jason was hundreds of years old, he might have stuffy ideas about manners too.

“He’s nice.” Nathaniel said in his soft, sweet voice after the door closed behind their Master and his guests.

Jason and Stephen blinked, sharing a look, the same question running through both their minds, though Jason was the one to ask it:

“Did you just see the same thing as us?” He shook his head ruefully. _How_ Nathaniel could still be so...it wasn’t innocent, not with everything he’s lived through, naive, maybe? Boggled the mind. “He wasn’t pretending to have a problem with Zachary, if anything from his scent he was _downplaying_ it.”

About then Aubrey returned and with a vampire’s hearing wasn’t lost at all at Nathaniel’s reply.

“He’s nice _to us._ ” He clarified. “Much nicer than most of Master Jean-Claude’s guests are.”

Oh. Jason tilted his head as he helped Stephen work his way through a new trick, spotting him on the pole. It wasn’t like falling would really _harm_ either of them, they were werewolves, but none of them needed to hurt over a practice. As for Nathaniel’s observation, he hadn’t considered that angle but once he thought the scene over he had to agree.

Master’s guests both _were_ nice. Not leering, or making crude comments, or trying for a grope. Not like most people treated strippers once they knew what they did for work. Like being willing to dance for an audience and take of their clothes somehow made them public property and assholes - women or men, in this instance there wasn’t much difference between the two - had an entitlement on their bodies or time.

That wasn’t exactly news to Jason as far as Mr. Black.

For all that he could make thoughtless comments and wasn’t necessarily _kind_ , he’d never been judgey or crude or gross either.

“He can afford to be.” Aubrey noted, moving over to Nathaniel and helping push him down deeper into a stretch. “He’s powerful. It doesn’t cost him anything to be polite and nice to others. Running his mouth however might be a different matter.”

Nathaniel chewed on his lower lips a moment, feeling the warmth of his tense muscle releasing with help, then offered another observation. In this case in the form of a question.

“Can witches be shifters?”

It wasn’t an unusual sort of question to come from their youngest cohort.

Nathaniel had spent so much time on the streets before being picked up and turned by his alpha that there were a lot of gaps in his education, more than most of the other shifters in the area.

Jean-Claude’s deal with his alpha Gabriel, the leader of the St. Louis pard of wereleopards, only covered teaching Nathaniel things like manners and deportment in exchange for Nathaniel working as a dancer in his club. But none of them could deny that Nathaniel had a sweetness to him that drew others in. If they all took turns trying to fill those gaps Gabriel didn’t bother with, that was their own business.

“Not that I’ve ever heard of,” Stephen had been a werewolf the longest of all of them along with his twin who was a wereleopard. He glanced over at Gregory who shook his head. “Why?”

Needless to say, Nathaniel’s innocent question had captured the attention of even snooty Robert, all of them turning their ears - if not the rest of them - to hear Nathaniel’s answer.

Nathaniel shrugged, pulling his legs under him and then rising with an elegant movement Jean-Claude had him practicing.

“They _feel_ like they have animals inside them. When I practiced lap dances using Mr. Black a couple weeks ago, he felt kinda like you,” he looked over at the blond wolves. “But not as... _wild,_ maybe?” He shook his head, not able to articulate what he meant any clearer than that.

“And his apprentice?” Aubrey asked, eyes narrowed in concern for his friend who was already quite taken with the little menace. Rafael always _did_ like the troublesome ones. His harpy of an ex-wife was proof enough of that. “How does he feel?”

Nathaniel pursed his lips in thought, head tilting to the side cutely.

“All wild.” It was the best he could do.

Aubrey leaned back and arched a brow at Robert, who frowned but nodded. He’d be the one to report the littlest leopard’s words to Jean-Claude. Neither of them had ever heard of a witch - or whatever they chose to call themselves - being a shifter.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t possible anyway, merely not having been seen openly _yet._

“It might be their magic, perhaps.” Robert proposed, having heard the apprentice say something about compatibility. Which meant that their magic wasn’t the same, unlike animators or the necromancers they seemed to dislike so much who all used the same rituals and same motions for their morbid work. “He’s here for training, his magic might be more untamed as a result of his younger age and inexperience.”

It was as good of an explanation as any.

Nathaniel just didn’t think it was _right_ though he knew better than to say so.

Nothing good ever came from talking back.

Not for him.

…

“She will stop at nothing to secure him, once Burchard speaks of him.” Sirius spoke with his voice pitched low, too low even for Harry to pick up though the distraction of him adding wards and protections to _Guilty Pleasures_ down in his day room and resting area, complete with his velvet-padded and silk-draped coffin, certainly helped keep it that way. “You know that as well as I do.”

“I know.” Jean-Claude admitted as much as it pained him. “Their visit was unexpected but not unanticipated. You have my apologies - once they were here there was no way to warn you without taking the risk of someone realizing I have been actively working to keep you and now your _filleul_ from Nikolaos’s attention.”

“Don’t lie, Jean-Claude.” Sirius was having none of his shit when it came to Harry. “You’re not protecting Harry for my sake and you’re _sure as shit_ not sending him flowers and flirting with him because of me. You want him. That you’re actually having to work at it and have competition if anything makes you want him _more._ Predators do so enjoy a good chase.”

His friend’s smirk was sardonic, a bit of _knowing_ in his eyes and tone, Jean-Claude getting the impression for not the first time that Sirius knew far more about what it meant to be either predator or prey than what he knew of his history suggests.

But then there was much about Sirius - and now Harry - that was shrouded in mystery and even Jean-Claude’s best contacts and employees couldn’t uncover it fully.

It would probably knock his friend down a peg or two if he knew it, but Jean-Claude actually _preferred_ that Sirius had secrets and things to hide. It made him predictable to an extent. Far more tolerable to be around than if he’d been wholly virtuous.

Those who were unstintingly honest, who were constant in their goodness and righteousness were often the most unpredictable to be around.

One never knew when their pesky ideals would have them interjecting into things that were not their place and causing for more pain and heartache for it.

“You’ve been a good friend to me, Jean-Claude, and an excellent business partner so I’ll give you some advice for free.” Sirius glanced over at his godson - still hard at work and engrossed in warding, almost to the point of needing to anchor them which should be an interesting exercise in self-control for his vampiric friend - meaningfully. “People have tried to control him since he was fifteen months old because of his power. Moving him and everyone around him like chess pieces on a board. You know what he did once he got old enough?”

“What?”

“He destroyed the board. Wrecked the game, took himself out of play entirely.” At least that was Sirius’s take on what had happened from Harry’s story. “A bit of harmless manipulation that goes on in every relationship is one thing. Try and use him without his knowledge against your enemies and he’ll burn you down before he rolls over and accepts it.”

“No wonder he gets on with the Rom so well.” Jean-Claude couldn’t help but smile at that testament to Harry’s personality. “In this they are well-suited.”

“Yeah,” Sirius drawled, then grinned brightly as Jean-Claude sucked in a shocked breath eyes popping wide as Harry nicked his finger and used several drops of blood to anchor his work to the existing wards. The vampire swayed on his feet for a moment, double-lashed eyes fluttering at the scent of his pup’s blood. “That’s another thing. There’s a reason I’ve always worked so hard to keep from bleeding around you lot.”

Harry glanced over and bit his bottom lip, shooting Jean-Claude a look filled with wicked amusement at his predicament.

“What-,” Jean-Claude swallowed harshly, pulling hard on his control and more relieved than he likely showed when Harry popped the finger into his own mouth. The move to clean away the blood looked far more salacious than Sirius was clearly comfortable with if the grimace he shot his godson was any sign, but it worked as when Harry pulled it from between his lips with a cheeky _pop_ there was no longer the scent of his enticing blood perfuming the air. “What _are_ you?”

Jean-Claude had assumed part-fey, perhaps only a generation or two back, as it was for most naturally talented magic users but even so he’d never met even _half-fey_ whose blood dripped with such power.

“We’re born of magic.” Harry stretched his arms over his head, hands linked, to loosen the tension from an hour or so’s solid spellcasting. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“If your aim was to dissuade me from my pursuit.” Jean-Claude arched a brow, casting a hot look up and down the lean line of Harry’s lithe form. “I’m afraid to say you’ve failed, _mon petit sorcier.”_

“Umm,” Harry shot a pleading look at Sirius only to find the unhelpful sod snickering into his shirt collar. “I kinda have my hands full with moving and Sirius and Rafael at the moment…”

“That’s not a no, _mon petit sorcier.”_ Jean-Claude smiled slowly. “But I am a gentleman. One no is all it will take to have me cease. Just one.” He stalked forward in an elegant glide that did approximately nothing to hide just how dangerous a creature he was as a master vampire. “One no crosses your lovely lips and it all stops.”

Harry found Jean-Claude’s strict adherence to consent probably sexier than was reasonable.

Especially since he wasn’t kidding himself: when it came to getting him in bed at least it wouldn’t be that difficult for Jean-Claude to seduce his way passed Harry’s not-very-high walls.

It was anything that would theoretically come _after_ Jean-Claude talking his way into Harry’s pants that was giving him pause for the most part, Rafael aside.

Though for much the same reasons.

He wasn’t stupid, he could see the writing on the wall and he’d been in St. Louis less than a week.

If Jean-Claude wasn’t the Master of the City by the time this issue with vampire killings was over he’d likely be dead - either at the hand of the killer or of Nikolaos was the question. Her human servant and pet necromancer coming to call out of the blue wasn’t exactly a favorable sign of where he rested in her regard. And Harry’d gotten the impression that with the Master it was best to be in her blindspot.

Having her minions show up in Jean-Claude’s personal territory could mean nothing good any way he looked at it.

Harry traded a glance with Sirius, reading nothing but _up to you_ from him then focused back on the master vampire stopping a hair's breadth away from Harry.

Jean-Claude was turned out as usual in leather, silk, and lace, managing to appear intrinsically masculine despite or maybe even because of the delicacy of his features and the lace frothing around his wrists and the deep plunging neckline of his silk shirt that dipped all the way to his navel over a chest that was sculpted perfection.

Harry had not the slightest _clue_ who Jean-Claude had been in life, but it was clear while his features were beautiful and his manner aristocratic he’d been no pampered princeling who spent more time gambling or having affairs than being active.

A knight, maybe, depending on just _how old_ he was, with a body built from horseback riding, wearing heavy armor, and wielding weapons from when he could walk.

His aura licked over Harry’s own, intoxicating in its own way despite not _actually_ working on him the way it was supposed to, Harry lost in Jean-Claude’s deep dark blue eyes for an endless moment that had nothing to do with vampiric powers and _everything_ to do with simple desire.

Nothing, some would argue, was simple about desire.

Harry would say otherwise. Desire and lust were inherently simple. It was everything _else_ surrounding them, all the pesky morals and ethics and jealousies and envies that arose to complicate the shit out of them that were the problem.

 _Want_ was at the base of everyone, right next to _need._

And just like that, Harry made a decision, one that was not so dissimilar to the one he’d made with Rafael though the terms of it were likely to be nothing alike.

“My favorite color is dark purple.” He told the vampire whose smile turned delighted. “Violets are my favorite flower but I like the roses. I hate when people try and surprise me without some form of warning. And if you ever try to get to me through other people, _ever again_ , I’ll burn you alive.”

Smiling cheerfully despite the deadly threat he’d just issued, Harry clicked his tongue and brushed passed the frozen vampire whose smile had melted away like candy floss in a summer rain, nodding to Sirius and leaving them to talk - both about _him_ and whatever business it was that Sirius knew he didn’t want to be involved with - without a fight.

He’d known David the Driver had been reporting to _someone_ , and the blond vampire in the club had happened to match the one he’d tailed him to reporting in on.

Harry hadn’t recognized him when he’d been in the club to find Sirius, but this time there’d been no mistaking the model-good looks and ponytail.

He wasn’t _mad_ about it, he actually respected that Jean-Claude knew how to keep eyes and ears on the city, he was just putting Jean-Claude on notice.

Over _Jean-Claude’s_ dead body would Harry let anyone else use the people around him to control him. He didn’t really _care_ about the driver. It wasn’t about that.

It had never been about that, even as the threat was coming out of his mouth.

It was about Sirius. About Rafael. Hell, even about the Rodere in a distant sense.

No chess master was going to push Harry around directly or indirectly, not even one Harry wanted to climb like a tree.

…

“The murders?” Sirius asked as soon as the door shut behind his pup, ignoring the threat Harry had laid out as calm as could be. Like it didn’t tickle him down to his bones to watch as his pup was strong and assertive and even dangerous. Slowly turning into a man who would’ve been James’s pride even as they butted head every ten seconds.

“Nikolaos both suspects me and wants me to find the killer.” Jean-Claude set the marvelous creature that was the _petit sorcier_ aside for the moment. Needs-must. “An untenable position.”

“That’s the problem with whoever is thinning the numbers of the city’s master vampires.” Sirius noted accurately. “Hard to blend into the crowd when there _is_ no crowd.”

Sucking in a breath when Jean-Claude simply nodded, Sirius scrubbed his hands over his face.

“I don’t want Harry anywhere near this, Jean-Claude.” Sirius warned him. “He’s getting too close to it _already._ There’s only a couple of reasons to escalate from killing average, low-powered young vampires to masters Jean-Claude. Humans Against Vampires or a rogue bigot. Possible but not likely. Magic now,” Sirius arched his brows, shifting his weight back and forth a couple times. “Vampires are swimming in magic. Blood magic and soul magic in particular.” He sighed, staring straight at Jean-Claude. “If it isn’t a vampire power play, knocking out Nikolaos’s support before trying to take the city, then my gold is on magic. Animator, vaudun, necromancer, witch, sorcerer, even an average idiot who stumbled on a ritual and figured out how to make it work.”

Jean-Claude frowned, not quite following then it snapped into place.

“Magic.” Jean-Claude breathed, eyes wide. “You and Harry, he said you’re born of magic.”

“Keeping him clear of it is the best shot I have to keep this killer from changing focus. Harry’s strong, powerful, he’s lived through things that would have killed another person a dozen times over. But he’s young, cocky,”

“Invulnerable.” Jean-Claude interjected. “As strong powerful young people often are.”

“Yeah.” Sirius laughed a little. “Thinks he’s bulletproof, that nothing around can touch him. Maybe he’s even right. But…”

“He’s your _filleul,_ and you do not wish for him to have to find out.” Jean-Claude nodded, it was an urge he could respect and one they shared: the drive to protect what was their own. “I have others I can bring in, if you would prefer to step back, _mon ami.”_

“No, the case is in me now and with Harry potentially in the line of fire I can’t step away. Just be careful, Jean-Claude, you have an opportunity with him that you’ll never get again. Harry can be reckless, stubborn, kind, so _very_ smart, but he’s never been forgiving. I’ll find the killer. You keep yourself in one piece. Just because I don’t like necromancy doesn’t mean I won’t reanimate your sorry ass just to kill you again if you break my pup’s heart.”

That reminded Jean-Claude. “Why do you call _le petit sorcier_ , pup?” He cocked his head in question. “Neither of you are _loup-garou.”_

“No,” Sirius smiled musingly. “We’re not. But are you ready to hear the most ridiculous case of fate fucking with people? Harry’s father and I, we had a third to our group of friends. Name of Remus Lupin, bitten by a werewolf when he was a child. Harry is the only child any of us ever had.”

…

Harry wandered back up from the hidden basement of _Guilty Pleasures_ \- you only needed about the same clearance to get down there as to get into family wing of Buckingham Palace - to find that Vampire Crazy Pants had come back.

Aubrey, that was his name Jean-Claude had used.

Aubrey was back and practicing routines with three of the other dancers, the rest having cleared out at some point.

His impression of Aubrey being like Sirius when he was straight out of Azkaban grew stronger as he watched humor light up his handsome face at the antics of the three dancers left doing more fooling around than actual practice.

Then his quiet observation was broken along with the scene when they saw him standing with a shoulder propped against a pillar and his hands tucked away in the expanded pockets of his vintage jeans.

“Don’t stop on my account.” He smiled and pushed off the pillar, walking closer until he was toeing the edge of the raised dance platform and runway.

He knew it wasn’t his presence that had startled them - even or perhaps especially the vampire Aubrey.

It was that they hadn’t _heard_ or _scented_ him before they saw him that was the problem.

He almost laughed, especially since three of them made almost the exact same startled face that was more bunny in headlights than it was fearsome predators.

“I’ve never seen anyone move like any of you until the other night.” He continued, charm out in full force. “I’m not much of a dancer.”

The two blonds traded mischievous looks then a moment later were grabbing hold of his arms with their wolven - he was assuming, the china-doll pretty one had a similar aura and strength as Jason and it made sense that Jean-Claude’s _pomme_ would be one of his wolves to call - strength and hauling him up onto the stage.

He didn’t bother to fight it, even planting a booted foot against the side of the stage and pushing up to make it easier on them.

Not that they needed the help, stupid were-shifter superstrength.

“I’m Jason, Jean-Claude’s _pomme de sang,”_ Sunshine Smile handled the introductions. “You already met Nathaniel, this is Stephen, and last but not least is Mister Aubrey.” He pointed in turn to lilac eyes, china-doll, and Captain Crazy Pants. “And _anyone_ can dance.”

Harry had a sinking feeling that he knew where this was going and he didn’t think it was going to work out well for anyone involved as the disastrous attempts to teach him how to do more than waltz had gone before the Yule Ball.

Running around clubs in muggle London had given him the basic ability to shuffle along with modern “dance” music but he in no way, shape, or form belonged on a stage in a strip club.

But as soon as soft lilac eyes were turned on him, Harry’s protests dried up in his throat and he resigned himself to the upcoming humiliation.

If nothing else, _made an ass out of himself failing to learn to dance at the hands of four strippers,_ would make an interesting addition to his planned phone call with Rafael after he finished up with Sirius.

…

Sirius had to admit, when he and Jean-Claude came up to the club floor, he hadn’t expected to have giggles and laughter greeting them.

_“Alright, I’m up here, now what?”_

Jean-Claude and he shared conspiring grins which faded to concern a moment later at a loud _thump_ and a groan from who they both recognized as Harry.

A groan that was swiftly drowned out by more laughter, both of them easily able to see what was so funny when they drew closer to the stage.

There he was, apple of Sirius’s eye and fearsome wizard who was the epitome of Gryffindor with his daring, bravery, and chivalry: sprawled out on his back on a dancing stage like a dying starfish, beauties of varying design laughing over his form.

“I _told you_ I’ve two left feet.” Harry protested, folding his arms and if Sirius were a betting man - which don’t be silly, of course he was - _pouting_ up at the one who came over to him to hover in concern.

It was that real sweetheart of Jean-Claude’s, Nathaniel, who for the very _life_ of him Sirius didn’t understand why he stayed with his sadistic alpha.

And Sirius only knew the tip of the iceberg when it came to the leader of St. Louis’s wereleopard pard at that.

“You got up the pole just fine, and you move fluidly, your footwork is good.” Jason rattled off, propping his hands on his hips without the least bit of sympathy as his new friend milked it from Nathaniel.

As if _all_ of them didn’t know by now that while Harry had a low-level of lust coming off of him when all of them took turns at teaching him - even Aubrey despite it being far overpowered by wariness and caution, smart despite the idiotic necro-baiting he’d done earlier - his scent pile softened and heated in equal measure when it was the littlest leopard.

In age and meekness anyway, Nathaniel had at least three inches on both Jason and Harry in height.

“You _should_ be able to dance.”

“He’s a fighter.” Sirius answered the question for them as he and Jean-Claude easily jumped up onto the stage, Harry finally getting to his feet with the “help” of Nathaniel. Kid was sandbagging for attention or he was a niffler. “Give him an opponent and he’ll be as graceful as a butterfly. Ask him to twirl a lady around the floor and he’s about as elegant as a newborn giraffe.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at his godfather. 

“That was _one_ dance and I didn’t want to attend the Yule Ball _anyway_ , besides being six years ago.” He protested. “I did well enough and got it over with as required.”

“Show me,” Jean-Claude waved a hand elegantly at the static pole that the others had locked into position to _try_ and teach Harry how to do tricks on it when he’d had enough of dancing. “Perhaps I can spot the issue.”

Sighing, Harry brushed one hand down Nathaniel’s arm absent-mindedly, approaching his latest opponent: a chromed metal pole climbing twelve feet in height. Placing his hands the way Jason had shown him, Harry easily gripped and lifted himself, climbing the pole with ease hand over hand.

Sirius let out a soft wolf whistle that got him a _look_ from his godson as Harry’s lithe arms shown off in his short-sleeved shirt tensed and flexed, revealing a healthy amount of muscle despite Harry’s deceptively small frame.

“Ah,” Jean-Claude breathed out as Harry swung his legs around once he reached near the top of the pole and just _sat_ there. Another show of strength given that he wasn’t using his ankles or feet to stabilize himself and hold himself up. “I see. It is as you said, _mon ami_.” Jean-Claude waved up at Harry as he explained as much to his young dancers as he did anyone else. Learning opportunities such as this should not be wasted, especially as Jason tended to mentor new dancers. “Our _petit sorcier_ is a fighter. Too stiff and tense, it is a challenge, yes? Not a _dance_ , not allowing the body to breathe and glide and flow from movement to movement.”

Jean-Claude talked Harry through a few adjustments that had him sliding back down without injury, finishing with a final statement as Harry took his hand as he untangled himself from the pole once his feet hit the stage.

“I believe for _mon petit sorcier_ to truly _danse,_ it must be _pas de deux,_ not _un_.”

Jean-Claude moved in, changing his grip on Harry’s hand as if to lead him in a dance, but before he could truly _begin_ , the doors to the club slammed open wide.

…

Harry already didn’t like whoever-the-fuck this was and all they’d done was shown up and been incredibly _rude_ about it.

That they also ruined what had been both a fun and profitable evening likewise didn’t help his impression of them.

It was a small group of vampires, he spotted that much right away.

The one in front - and reason that Jean-Claude would have to repair his entrance before opening the following night - was dressed in purple like a riverboat gambler, with a golden half-mask covering his eyes.

Behind him came a trio: one too short that Harry couldn’t quite see, with a male vampire who looked like a joke in his black tux on their right and a female who was, to put it kindly, _plain_ to the left.

It was who came last bringing up the rear that dropped the knut for Harry, as he’d seen that shiny bald head just a few hours before.

Burchard, the human servant of the Master of the City, which meant…

“Master Nikolaos.” Jean-Claude let loose of him like Harry’s clothes and hand had been made of hot coals. Or holy water. “A most _unexpected_ honor.”

Yeah, Harry bet it was.

Riverboat stepped aside and Harry got his first look at a Master of the City.

In this case a white linen dress with eyelet lace edging, golden curls, and an innocent face turned harsh by its owner’s disposition.

Yay.

Some idiot turned a pre-teen. Harry hadn’t known what to think when she’d been described to him. Given that their brains weren’t fully developed let alone the rest of them, not the _best_ idea in the word.

With the dark look on her face and the snarl marring her mouth, he already knew this was going to be _tedious_ to say the least.

Fan-fucking- _tastic._


	7. Chapter 7

**Ancient Bonds**

**Chapter Seven: Wherein Harry is not having any of anyone’s bullshit.**

Harry could almost read Sirius’s mind in the moment that the entourage of vampires split up and revealed the Master of the City.

It went something along the lines of: _Harry for the love of Merlin keep your mouth shut!_

Excellent advice.

He absolutely wasn’t going to take it, but he wasn’t going to attack first - so to speak.

No, no.

He wanted to know exactly the sort of psycho he was dealing with before he worked at infuriating her because watching as people he was growing to like and enjoy being around - even Captain Crazy Pants - almost turn to jello at the sight of her, well, it just flipped all of those bold brash Gryffindor buttons that his inner Slytherin _wishes_ his inner Ravenclaw would help it uninstall.

It was far too close of a flashback to Voldemort and the Death Eaters for his liking. A few loyal sadists that kept the rest of the terrified sheep in line. Plus a good torture and murder here and there for best effect when they thought their inner circle needed a reminder of the sort of bugfuck crazy they were dealing with.

At least she’d left her pet necromancer at home.

If Harry had to be around the stench of his corrupted magic any more tonight he might vomit on Jean-Claude’s freshly cleaned floors.

Well...she’d left one of her pet necromancers at home. He didn’t know that necromancers could be turned into vampires but the plain - and bitter about it if the way she looked at Jean-Claude and the rest of them was any sign - female had a definite spark of death magic around her that was separate from the normal blood-and-soul magic that vampires carried naturally. Her powers, whatever they were, felt much weaker than either Zachary from earlier or Voldemort, so perhaps the turning had diminished her ability to use them _or_ she hadn’t been that strong to begin with.

A master vampire, nonetheless, but perhaps _only_ as powerful as Jean-Claude not even close to the deceptively innocent looking Master of the City.

Nikolaos _did_ have power in spades, Harry could admit, though part of that was the bonus of being attached to and able to draw on the vampires under her purview, not _all_ her.

“I want the witch, Jean-Claude.” Nikolaos demanded without ado. And it _was_ a demand from the Master of the City to an underling. “Not your platitudes.”

Harry arched a questioning brow at Sirius who nodded slightly.

Yeah.

That’s not going to work for him no matter which of them she was after.

“Is she talking about you or about me, Siri?” Harry asked aloud despite already being given the answer. “I mean, neither of us have turned female, so...little confused.”

“They call all magic users witches here for the most part, pup.” Sirius didn’t know what Harry’s play was here, other than being, well, _himself_ but he’d back it without question. Honestly, in his opinion if someone was dumb enough to come at Harry head-on they deserved what they got. No matter their species or how powerful they were, they’d have to bring more than sheer power or potential damage to the table if they wanted to set up a confrontation that had a chance of working in their favor.

Because Harry would never back down, he wouldn’t cave or cower, and given Harry’s history the ones who thought they could bully or overpower him were always the ones who couldn’t actually out-think him.

“Then make it _both_ ,” Stereotype drawled, clearly eyeing them in dark appreciation that had Harry shuddering and wishing for a bath. “I’m sure Valentine and I could find a _use_ for them.”

“Yeah, that’s a no for me.” Harry shot back right away, pacing forward and jumping lightly down from the stage. “I’m going to pass on having Dracula Bad Touch _using_ me, thanks.”

“They are under my protection, Master Nikolaos.” Jean-Claude half-warned and half-apologized, moving forward so fast to put himself in front of Harry the human eye couldn’t have traced the movement. “Monsieur Black as you well know is my business partner, and his apprentice Monsieur Potter is covered by our agreement.”

“Contracts with humans.” Valentine scoffed. “They are not yours to call, they are not your servants, they are at best _food_ and entertainment.”

“If that was the truth.” Harry stepped out from behind Jean-Claude, and closer to Riverboat. “Then there would be no reason for the Master of the City to demand us from Master Jean-Claude. Such a thing implies a value far greater than a fuck and feed.”

Harry watched, eyes flickering over the invading vampires at caught it as Nikolaos’s face twisted with disgust at the implication of sex - whether that was in general or just with humans he didn’t know - and Burchard’s tightened at the same moment.

Interesting.

Their bond truly _was_ something to behold, he’d been watching it as much or more than everything else going on since they stormed into the near-empty club.

“What would it take then?” Burchard stepped forward, falling into the role of diplomat with an ease that implied it was often his duty in his mistress’s court. “You are an apprentice, by your own admission you have value to us. What would your price be to serve in the Master’s court?”

“You can’t afford me and I don’t _do_ servitude.” Harry responded with a cheeky smile as Sirius shifted anxiously behind him, the only one other than Jean-Claude of their, well their _side_ he supposed, who wasn’t frozen in place. “Sorry, not sorry.”

Hissing in fury, Valentine darted forward and swiped at his face in an open-handed slap with all of his strength behind him.

If landed on a regular human or even a lycanthrope, it was a blow _designed_ to at least break or shatter bone if not tear a head off their neck entirely.

The _crack_ of it almost echoed in the sudden frozen silence as Nikolaos’s golden curls bounced, her head whipping around to glare fiercely at her impetuous subordinate.

Silence hung in the air for a long moment, then it was broken in the unlikeliest of ways.

Harry laughed.

Well, it was more of a dark chuckle.

Reaching up to his mouth, Harry brushed the pad of his thumb over where his shield had cracked under the vampiric strength, pointing out a flaw in his personal protection. Oh well. He’d fix it later.

For the moment, the idiot who hadn’t even managed to turn his head let alone truly _damage_ him was staring at him with stunned eyes, Harry’s just _taking_ the blow as if it was a slap from a regular human having completely rattled the vampire.

“Remind me how it works with vampires, Siri.” Harry said as he slipped his thumb into his mouth, clearing off the blood. He _did_ have a scent-shield up that he’d tossed up at the intruders’ entrance. So at least he wasn’t sending the vampires into a blood-frenzy at the scent of him, given that he clearly couldn’t trust all of their kind to have Jean-Claude’s control. “Attacking a person that is unaffiliated. That’s assault, right? I can demand recompense or choose to take it to RPIT?”

“Since they can’t roll you to make the charges go away, yep.” Sirius nodded, a sly smirk ghosting over his face as he started to get what was behind Harry’s bratty behavior. “Especially since, as Mister Burchard pointed out, _you_ don’t actually have a contract with Jean-Claude but are working for him as an adjunct to my own. That makes you a free agent, so to speak, when it comes to other vampires.”

“And using their full strength against a _witch_ ,” he used their term as Burchard started to look a bit panicked around the eyes. Harry couldn’t afford to turn and look at Jean-Claude, but his sense of the vampire _felt_ kinda smug. “That would go down as attempted murder, right?”

“Dolph could probably make a case for it, yeah.”

“Oh good.” Harry smirked, lifting his hand and then _snapped,_ Valentine buckling and gasping in unison. Harry didn’t _need_ to snap to channel his magic to the purpose he set it to in that moment but it _did_ work quite well for emphasis. Because he was a dramatic bastard sometimes even before the Black portraits got their claws in him. “Done. My recompense is complete.”

Nikolaos hissed, frowning as she felt a bit of her power drain away, even as she and the others watched in amusement as Valentine huddled and cowered on the floor like a puling new fledgling.

“What did you do?” Burchard asked, eyes flicking between the vampire that seemed to wither before their eyes but was still somehow alive.

“It’s never a great idea to demand things of wizards whose powers you don’t know.” Harry told him nonchalantly. “You all _assumed_ that because Sirius specializes in protections that of course I am the same. You were _wrong.”_ His smile was darkly satisfied. “My area of expertise is bindings.”

The others except Sirius traded glances of confusion.

Somehow none of them thought that meant the same thing to him as it did to them.

“Bonds.” He explained, the word dripping slowly from between his lips, his mouth relishing every letter with adoration. “My expertise is bonds. And as Riverboat here tried to kill me, which would’ve broken a bond of ancient power, sworn in blood, I broke one of similar _making_ that was connected to him.”

“Was.” Former-Necromancer took a sudden step back, weak blue eyes wide. “What did you _do?”_

“He tore him away from ME.” Nikolaos shrieked, enraged, whirling on the witch with bloodlust in her eyes, hands curling into talons and skin drawing tight across her skull. “I will have your _head_ for this, witch boy!”

“Well, you can try.” Harry lifted his brows in expectation then cocked his head a bit, taunting. “But I think you’ll find that _much_ harder to manage than you think. Others always have.” He tapped his lightning scar in a mock warning.

“A life for a life.” Jean-Claude cut in before _le petit sorcier_ could _literally_ blow the tense detente between himself and Nikolaos to pieces. “A debt repaid.”

None of them were under any illusions: Valentine wasn’t near powerful enough to have the blood-tie to his maker _and_ the Master of the City broken, even if Harry hadn’t necessarily been intending to kill him in doing so.

None of them were likewise doubting that Harry knew exactly what he was doing, that he _was_ killing Valentine albeit in a roundabout fashion, but some things were best left up to interpretation.

Harry waited for the Master’s group to back out of the club, Stereotype hauling Riverboat with him, then glanced turned to Jean-Claude and asked a simple question:

“Do you want me to break your bond to her? It’s weak, compared to others.” Harry pointed out. “She won’t even feel the change in the wake of losing her thug if I had to guess.”

The same wards of Sirius’s that kept the club from noise citations also worked to keep prying ears from listening where they shouldn’t - as long as they were outside the club anyway.

“There might not be a better chance.” He continued when Jean-Claude simply studied him with an inscrutable look in his eyes.

“Perhaps.” Jean-Claude agreed with that much at least. “But as a vampire, even a master, there _are_ rules I must follow. The only time a vampire may allow a human - wizard or not - to act on their behalf in vampire affairs is if they are their human servant, lest they draw the attention of those far more lethal than the likes of Nikolaos. _Non, mon petit sorcier._ Though I appreciate the offer nonetheless.”

Harry accepted the refusal with good grace and a nonchalant shrug, turning to leave with Sirius catching up to his side.

“They won’t be able to attack here again now that I have a measure of the power I'm dealing with,” Harry assured Jean-Claude though in part it was for the peace of mind of the still frightened dancers than the master vampire. “Or even force anyone from the club. You have my word on that, Jean-Claude.”

“ _Tres bien. A bientôt, mes amis.”_

…

“Congratulations, kiddo.” Sirius mocked him relentlessly as they walked back to his loft.

Harry had Apparated over, part of his ongoing practice at the skill, and Sirius at least would feel better if anyone watching them thought that Harry fell asleep at his rather than was tucked away alone at the pup’s house.

“You managed to keep a low profile for not even a week before pissing off the most powerful vampire in the city. That has to be a record, even for a Potter.”

“Oh shut up, Padfoot.” Harry groaned, feeling the _oh shit, what did I just do_ , start to set in now that the immediate rush of anger and fear and adrenaline began to leave him. His Morgana-damned _saving people thing_ large and in charge.

Or maybe it was more his utter _disdain_ and contempt for bullies roaring to life.

…

Harry never saw it coming.

He expected retaliation - but he expected it from Nikolaos and once she recovered from losing both a vampire sworn to her as the Master of the City _and_ one of her progeny.

If she even saw them that way, as Harry understood it not every maker or sire in this world did.

Harry knew better than anyone how a life can change in an instant.

How the world could shatter either with a catastrophic blow or a whisper.

He never thought he’d have to see Sirius laying at his feet, _dying_ with every breath.

Not again.

Not like this.

They had come out of nowhere, as if falling from the sky. The rooftops. They came from the rooftops.

Shadows and light could cover a multitude of sins.

On this night it hid creatures that he’d never seen before, even as one of the half-dozen with identical crimson eyes and black-tips claws for hands _punched_ through Sirius’s back and out his front, perhaps shattering bone in the process though he couldn't tell without a diagnostic.

As gruesome as it was - to see, to hear, to _smell_ \- it wasn’t a killing blow even as the rest whined at the one who’d torn through a human body like it was made of aluminium foil.

“ _Sirius!”_ Harry howled, a slash of his arm ripping the creature away and sending it hurtling back to crash into the brick wall of the alleyway near Dead Dave’s.

So close to safety but at the same time it might as well be on another continent with a pool of blood forming under his godfather and blood flecking his lips as he gasped with pain and spasmed.

The next instant had his knobbly won wand flying into his palm with a _smack,_ a thought had Sirius in stasis and a body bind, and then he looked up with eyes glowing with eerie green fire at the pack of monsters circling them.

They were death incarnate, the one he’d tossed away having merely stood back up to join the rest of what Harry could only describe as a _pack_.

Too bad for them but Harry was no Voldemort.

He’d never feared death.

Nor was he any longer afraid of fighting fire with fire - or in the case of the corrupted magics coursing through these monsters, dark magic with dark magic.

 _“Colobos!”_ He shouted, a vicious slash of his wand through the air tearing two of the monsters. The dark severing curse cut the pair apart starting at the neck of the larger and down to the hip of the smaller though only a few inches separated the two in height. Both the creatures tried to move forward following whatever crude command that was controlling them only to slide apart like so much butter cut by an electric knife.

The monsters weren’t _completely_ beastial, still retaining or possessing some form of intelligence as the four remaining suddenly paused at the sight of their follows’ gruesome ends.

Harry turned to them with a dark smile, eyes burning.

“Don’t like cutting curses, huh?” His teeth flashed in the alley’s emergency lights. “I wonder how you lot feel about _fire…”_

He breathed the spell into being, though not _Fiendfyre_ for fear of it running rampant with his focus divided at Sirius’s peril.

Though the conflagration he breathed into life wasn’t much far off of it, whipping into life as it attached to his will, Harry conducting it with his wand as he got his answer: they _didn’t_ like fire.

At all it seemed as they gave more of those high pitched whines and tried to scrabble up the sides of the buildings or run for the mouth of the alley to escape it.

Futile, but showed a sort of low cunning regardless.

As Dumbledore could’ve told them: there was no running from the bound flames of a blood mage.

He felt the rush of it and the sudden drain but he held on until the last was ashes at his feet before cancelling the spell with a slash of his wand and going down onto his knees beside Sirius, feeling sick to his stomach as the blood soaked through his jeans and onto his skin.

A moment later and he realized that it wasn’t all due to the macabre sight of Sirius’s torn open back and abdomen - it was actual exhaustion following in the wake of his multiple advanced uses of magic and fraught moments this night had contained.

And with Sirius two breaths from death in his hands, it wasn’t over _yet._

A shocked, sucked-in breath alerted him to the presence of others as he felt more than heard two pairs of feet hit the ground flanking him.

 _“Mon petit sorcier.”_ Jean-Claude took in the scene with wide eyes.

Though even so he cataloged it, the bodies of the ghouls that remained in pieces at Harry’s doing filling in a question about the vampire murderers that had been bothering him from the second victim who was strong if not overly smart.

“That’s a killing blow if he doesn’t get aid.” Aubrey noted as he crouched over the splayed out form of Sirius Black. Wincing, he looked away and towards the wound itself as he received a glare that had plenty killing intent of its own out of green eyes. He leaned over and sniffed at the wound, trying to scent out if there was more than blood in play while keeping a firm hold on the bloodlust that roared to life at the scent of the wizard's delectable blood. “There’s at least one rupture despite your magic holding him together.”

Or so he presumed was the case anyway, given what he’d seen of the little wizard’s power he wasn’t keen to underestimate his abilities, even if at the moment he looked like one stiff breeze would carry him away.

“St. Louis General, Aubrey.” Jean-Claude ordered. “Make haste and try to request the Ulfric if you can. His senses would be a boon for our friend.”

“I can’t heal him.” Harry admitted helplessly, looking up at Jean-Claude with eyes gone liquid from holding back tears. “This is far beyond my knowledge, let alone the little of healing I’ve practiced on another.” He turned his stare to Aubrey, catching his blue eyes with his suddenly fierce gaze. “How long will it take you to get him to the hospital?”

“Moments, heartbeats.” Aubrey shrugged. It was nothing to a vampire of his age and skill with flying. “Not more.”

“In one minute precisely I’m going to lift the spells keeping him still and in stasis. You better have him on a gurney in the hospitals A&E by then or I will _personally_ ensure you _don’t_ live to regret it.”

“ _Bien sûr, maître sorcier.”_ Aubrey nodded his French roots coming out at Harry’s threat that he believed down to his toes the little one would carry out to the best of his ability. And if what he saw of the fight against the ghouls was any sign, his best was terrifying. “It will be so.”

Harry lifted his hands off of Sirius, waiting for the auburn haired vampire to gather him up, then nodded starting the count with: _“Go!”_

Hands dripping with his godfather’s blood and the scent of ash and burned flesh all around them, Harry stood and faced Jean-Claude, finding him a mere step behind him.

“How did you know?” He asked, eyes burning and throat choked with tears but still more than willing to unleash his rage on the vampire if he smelled a single _ounce_ of bullshit coming from his lips.

Beautiful, charming, seductive creature that he wanted to let talk him into all _kinds_ of things or not - if Jean-Claude had _anything_ to do with this he’d burn him down.

He’d feel bad about it later, maybe.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t been warned.

“I am ashamed to say that I did not.” Jean-Claude admitted, chagrin burning at him.

Quite the show of his power, allowing both his friend and hopefully his future paramour to be attacked mere _blocks_ from his territory.

Sirius had known, somehow, that magic was at work with the vampire murders and that strong magic users like the pair of wizards might also end up targets...but it never occurred to either of them that _Sirius_ might end up the target and not Harry when the latter is significantly more powerful as any vampire could attest to.

They could _sense_ it much the same way a lycanthrope could smell it though they could do that _too_ especially in the blood. Magic allowed vampires to exist much as it allowed for the variations in status among weres. If lycanthropy was as simple as a virus there would be no Ulfrics or alphas, no Nimir-Ras or _munin_. No, magic was alive and well and thriving among the preternatural. They had their ways however instinctual at times, of knowing who to be wary of.

None had ever in turns caused Jean-Claude's blood to thrill and his instincts to fear like Harry and the power that coiled inside him tight and restrained one moment and then roared at his command wild and fierce the next.

Though after what Harry had done this night, it won’t only be Jean-Claude and his closest allies that would be aware that the difference between Sirius and Harry was more than a matter of age or experience.

Even if one wasn’t wise or powerful enough to realize Harry’s hidden power, him dispatching a half-dozen ghouls on his own would certainly draw attention.

One way or another, such things were _always_ found out.

“Aubrey has taken a liking to taking the air via the roof of late. Clears the mind. We heard your scream but with your flames active deemed it... _imprudent_ to come to your aid until they were smothered.”

Harry hated it for being so Merlin-damned logical but he couldn’t deny Jean-Claude’s point.

Fire was an indiscriminate executioner, even flames under his control if he didn’t see his own allies arrive and pull them back.

Besides which once Sirius was under the stasis unless Harry was knocked out or removed it - as he’d already done, praying to whatever deity might be inclined to listen that Aubrey hadn’t run into any problems with having him seen - timing stopped mattering so much as preventing greater direct harm.

Only the bond between them - faint now with all of Sirius’s energy being directed by his magic to keep him alive, a sort of instinctual fail-safe - let him know that Sirius was still alive.

The attack had been _meant_ to kill.

As sudden as it was, where it was staged, it was clear to Harry that it had been meant to kill _Sirius._

Some tried to tear Harry’s heart out of his godfather’s chest.

It was only fair he returned the favor.

“The Master of the City is responsible for this.” Harry told Jean-Claude, voice cold and sheer ruthlessness dripping from every pore as his face hardened. The happy, joyful young godson was stripped away in an instant. Only the battle-hardened child soldier was left behind. “One way or another, this happened to _my godfather_ in _her city._ I’ll have recompense.”

Even if he had to tear it out of her ribcage with his _bare fucking hands_.

He didn’t say it, he didn’t need to.

Anyone who saw him in that moment knew it down to their bones.

Like Dave and Luthor who stepped out of the rear entrance of their building, Luthor holding a solid oak baseball bat wrapped in silver spiked chains and crosses that would send any vampire reeling with a single hit.

Harry’d thought he was a brawler, and likewise found himself unsurprised that Dave held a pistol in his hand as the young vampire cut his gaze from Harry to Jean-Claude and back in caution as they stared each other down with only a pace between them.

In the back of his mind he quaked at just _how fast_ the attack and his response had been if Dave and Luthor were just _now_ coming outside to investigate.

“Bloodthirsty thing aren’t you?” Jean-Claude smiled slowly at the fiery wizard. “You’d make a good vampire with that attitude, _mon petit sorcier.”_

“Oh no, my people are _infamous_ for their blood feuds, Jean-Claude.” Harry’s answering smile was all teeth. “No turning required. And so my point stands. Whether from her direct involvement or her indirect incompetence, my godfather is now in A&E after almost bleeding out from a…”

“Ghoul.” Jean-Claude supplied helpfully.

“Ghoul.” He nodded sharply in thanks, barely flicking a glance over at the pair of his godfather’s friends as they looked shocked at the revelation. Likely hadn’t been expecting news like _that_ after hearing trouble behind their place. Who would? “Attack. Sirius has played nice with this city. I’m not inclined to follow his example if _this,”_ he spread his arms wide encompassing the scorch marks and the two ghouls in pieces. “Is the result.”

“What did you have in mind, _mon petit sorcier?”_ Jean-Claude asked with genuine curiosity.

Harry turned his head from right to left in an obvious motion, flicking his eyes once again to Sirius’s friends.

“Nothing I’m inclined to air in the open with an audience.”

Harry flicked his wand, vanishing every trace of magical blood in the alleyway, then nodded politely to Jean-Claude.

“Sirius was taken to St. Louis General.” He told Dave and Luthor, then shot a considering glance at Jean-Claude before adding: “If you see Aubrey before I do, tell him I owe him a debt for his help.”

“Of course, Harry.” Jean-Claude for once refrained from a pet name, recognizing the serious tone of the wizard’s offer. And the promise it carried but left unsaid.

As it was on Jean-Claude’s order that Aubrey lent his assistance but that it was Aubrey’s new habit that had led to them being in the proper place to offer it.

“Thank you, Jean-Claude.” He flicked another glance around at the three of them, didn’t _feel_ anyone else watching, then smirked. “See you soon.”

And then disappeared with a soft _crack._

“I _told you,”_ Luthor glanced over at Dave in the shocked silence that followed Harry’s departure. “Didn’t I tell you? Sirius just blinked out of sight. _No,_ you said. Witches can’t just teleport, Luthor, you said.” He snorted derisively, not surprised in the least when he looked away from nagging his best-friend to find that the fancy frenchy had disappeared. “I call bullshit. Witches might not be able to teleport but I abso-fucking-lutely believe that wizards can. And that they’re more different than you and the rest of the fanged club want to believe.”

Dave just sighed out a breath he didn’t actually _need_ as a vampire.

Color him less-than-shocked that Jean-Claude left them to call in the dead ghouls and attack on Sirius to RPIT.

“C’mon.” He nudged his taller friend. “Let’s call this in to Storr then hit up the hospital to check on Sirius once our subs for the bar arrive.”

And try and keep his cute godson from blowing up half the damn city in a rage.

If he’d thought his friend was mercurial, whoo boy, he apparently didn’t know the meaning of the word.

…

Harry landed with a soft _crack_ of Apparation - softer than the typical engine-backfiring noise, which Sirius said was due to his hardwon magical control - in a dark corner of the hospital’s car park.

His knees bent and flexed as he nearly toppled over from exhaustion but he wasn’t even close to done with his night.

He couldn’t _afford_ exhaustion with a surgeon no doubt wrist-deep in Sirius to repair his abdomen.

Potions could do a lot once the basic repairs were complete but he couldn’t just dump some down Sirius’s throat and hope for the best. He’d end up dead doing that or with problems in his internal wiring that Harry couldn’t hope to fix afterward. Once the muggles got the basic patching done then he could use potions to speed things up and prevent infection and the like.

Sirius just had to survive to that point first.

Summoning a Pepper-Up from his expanded pockets, Harry tossed it back then stuck the vial back before leaning against the wall while he waited desperately for it to take effect. Squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that still threatened to break him, he knocked his head back against the cold concrete behind him with a soft _thud._ Breathing slowly in through his nose and back out of his mouth, he felt the soft tingle of heat washing over him and then the whistle of hot air being blown out of his ears the sign that the potion had completed its work.

Pushing off the wall with a contraction of his core, Harry stepped forward.

A pulse of his magic had him cleaned up from Sirius’s blood, the spray of clotted dead blood from the ghouls, and the ash from burning them along with the general grime he’d picked up by kneeling in a blood-puddle in an alley.

Between one step and the next he’d gone from victim of a horrible attack to a put-together young man who would pass muster and - hopefully - go uncontested when he sought information on his godfather’s condition.

He’d rather not have to _Confundus_ charm his way through the hospital’s administration staff but he’d do it if he had no other choice.

The night wasn’t over yet.

He could fall apart later.

Navigating his way through the warren of hospital corridors, he finally made his way to the A&E waiting room and took his place in line behind a couple who looked like they’d just come off a three-day bender.

“How can I help you, sir?” The reception aid asked briskly, glancing up from inputting whatever information was required to get the couple before him care.

“My father was admitted a little bit ago with a stomach wound.” He explained, playing up the tension in his face and voice. “Sirius Black. He should’ve been brought in by a vampire who came to help us.”

The receptionist reared back a little bit, distaste crossing her face at the mention of Aubrey but Harry didn’t let that break the restraint on his tongue.

Though that mass _Confundus_ was looking more appealing.

“Right.” The word almost dripped with disdain. “He’s in emergency surgery. Down the hall, waiting room is on the left. Next.” She called, already craning her head around him as Harry strode away.

Harry didn’t know how long he’d been sitting in one of the hard plastic chairs in the emergency surgery waiting room when the next dust-up came calling.

Long enough for the head in his hands as he leaned over to have taken on red pressure marks if the view of his palms were any sign.

Not long enough for Dave and Luthor to arrive, assuming they were on their way.

“Harry Potter?” A gruff voice asked, Harry looking up a moment later.

And up.

And up.

“What did they _feed you?”_ He asked, eyes wide as he stared up at the biggest person he’d seen in his life without having half their genetic contribution being provided by a literal giant.

The man - police, that was a badge hanging on a lanyard around his neck and a pistol on his belt - was _huge._ Standing at least a head taller - maybe even a solid foot - than the man next to him and towering over the petite woman - and _wow_ someone had pissed in her cereal if the look on her face was any sign - he was built large in a way that would _always_ be large. Broad shoulders like an axe handle, long limbed, tree trunks for legs and a barrel chest, the not-giant could probably lift Harry one-handed and toss him the length of a Quidditch pitch.

Both of his fellows - the man a cop and the woman not if the badges or lack thereof were any sign - snorted or swallowed laughs at his question while a flicker of humor lit up his face for a split-second before smoothing back out into the cop mask.

“Sergeant Rudolph Storr with the Regional Preternatural Investigation Taskforce.” Not-Giant introduced himself then waved a hand the size of a baked ham at his fellows. “This is Detective Zerbrowski and Consultant Blake.”

Harry knew his face did _something_ at that from the ever-souring expression on the woman.

What could he say?

He didn’t like fucking necromancers and even if he _did_ being attacked by a pack of piloted ghouls would’ve cured him of that in a hurry.

They played with magic and shit they couldn’t even begin to understand and treated death and souls like their personal bitches.

What was dead should stay dead - and no, vampires didn’t count, they were still living if not strictly alive the same as humans and in possession of their souls just in a different fashion than humans.

Whatever passed for a deity in this fucked up universe had decided that they should exist as a species and that was enough for Harry.

Necromancers _played_ at being god with death and souls.

“Did Dave and Luthor call you or were you alerted when a vampire dropped him off, Sgt. Storr?” Harry asked, climbing to his feet and shaking hands with the behemoth and detective when they were offered.

To no one’s surprise, the consultant Blake didn’t offer.

“Both, actually.” The detective told him cheerfully, at odds with the current situation.

“Well, he’s in surgery.” Harry sighed, waving absently in the general direction of the “Staff Access Only” doors that required a keycard to cross. “Don’t know how it looks yet from a medical standpoint.”

“And from your standpoint?” Blake asked pointedly, dragging her eyes derisively over his pristine clothes. “Awful clean for being attacked in an alley behind a bar. An attack that left Black in the ER.”

“Under what authority do you ask _MS. Blake_?” Harry could play prissy bitch as well as anyone. From the sneer that cross her lips, this one couldn’t handle it when it was dished back at her. Funny how that worked. “From what I understand from Sirius, you’re only a consultant. An _animator_ at that. Given that we were attacked by a half-dozen ghouls that require necromantic power to be raised and directed in such a coordinated manner away from their hunting grounds, I find _that_ quite interesting personally.”

“Okay,” the detective jumped forward, grabbing hold of Blake and hauling her away as her shooting hand clenched. “Blake and I are going, to, yeah.”

Zerbrowski turned back towards the nurses’s desk and _well away_ from the mouthy little bastard that had Anita’s hand twitching for her gun.

Not all that surprising once he thought about it.

Black and Blake usually got on about as well as two feral cats stuffed in a one-cat sack.

Potter wouldn’t be the first kid to pick up their parent’s prejudices, even well into adulthood.

Dolph arched his brows when Potter went from icy to composed in two seconds flat as soon as Blake was out of view.

Interesting.

He got the impression that Potter hadn’t _meant_ the implication that Blake was the one behind the attack but that he’d been willing to make the potshot to get her away from him.

Helluva lot more efficient than the way his dad tended to cripe and snark until one of them left in a huff.

More potentially headache inducing as well as he had to listen to Blake bitch about it, but efficient nonetheless.

“That wasn’t helpful, Mister Potter.” Dolph said mildly.

Harry just shrugged. “My tolerance for plebs who tinker with magic they don’t actually understand varies. After what Sirius barely lived through tonight, it’s currently buried under the the permafrost at the South Pole.”

Yep, if Dolph had any doubts before given the lack of resemblance in their faces, that mouth cleared them right up quick fast and in a hurry.

“What happened, Mr. Potter?”

Harry sighed, slumping back down into his seat and against the plastic of the chair.

“I got cocky.” He scoffed, pissed at himself and knowing that was a state that wasn’t going to go away anytime soon. He explained after a glance up at the massive man showed Storr wasn’t following. “I’m used to being able to handle anything that comes at me. _Me._ It’s been literal years since I’ve had to worry about someone else being attacked in conjunction with me. I wasn’t prepared for it.”

Yep, that resemblance was just getting stronger and stronger the more that came out of Potter’s mouth.

Survivor’s guilt and all.

“They came out of nowhere - I’ve never seen anything move like that before. Dropped down from the building walls or the roofs. By the time I knew what was going on or that we were being attacked one of them had their hand punched through Sirius. His _scream_ came almost in unison with the attack they moved that fast.”

Dolph whipped out his little notebook - it looked comical in his bearpaw hands along with his mini-pencil - taking brisk notes in his personal shorthand.

“Did the vampires arrive before or after the attack?”

“After.” Harry told him point-blank then lifted one of his arms, shoving up his short sleeve until the entirety of the flame tattoos could be seen. “I use my magic differently than Sirius's preferences. It’s not safe for vampires to be around someone like me when I’m fighting off something like ghouls.”

“That explains why we found two bodies and you said there were six.” Dolph blinked, filing Potter under _pyrokinetic_ in his mental Rolodex.

“Yep.” Harry said unapologetically. “Aubrey heard the scream and landed when I put the fire out. He took Sirius for care right away.” He shook his head. “It happened so fast that Dave and Luthor didn’t even make it outside to the alley from the pub until after Aubrey left with Sirius for the hospital.”

“Any times you can give me, even an estimate to try and piece things together from our end?” Dolph asked, adding to the ask of time when Harry just kept shaking his head.

“No, I’m still trying to adjust to this time zone, half the time I’m still convinced it’s three in the afternoon despite dawn breaking.” He played helpless. “It took Aubrey a minute or less to get Sirius to the hospital as far as I know.”

“You said they went straight for Sirius.” Dolph circled back around to the salient point. “Any idea why? No offense but looking at the two of you, your dad is the more imposing figure.”

Considering that the top of Harry’s head came to the hollow of Dolph’s throat, that he didn’t find the curly-headed youth intimidating - tattoos and magical powers or not - was an understatement.

“He’s been working on that case,” he waved in Dolph’s general direction. “Best guess?”

“Best guess.” Dolph nodded. Hell at this point he’d take anything if it gave him a direction to run towards instead of fumbling around in the dark. He might not like the preternatural but even he knew that the vampires aren’t going to take being slaughtered much longer before they start spilling blood of their own.

“Vampires are magic, it fills them and keeps them living despite not being strictly alive.” Harry broke down - though he didn’t know it - the same point Sirius had made to Jean-Claude mere hours before. “Sirius and I are probably the most magical non-vampires in this _country_ let alone the city. My best guess? Whoever’s doing this thought they were killing two birds with one stone: magic for whatever purpose they need it for and killing off the best chance RPIT has of catching them.”

“How certain are you that a necromancer has to be in charge of these ghouls?” Dolph asked his second pertinent question he wanted clarification on. “Could someone or something else do it?”

 _Especially_ since Potter hadn’t explicitly stated it while he was giving his account of the attack.

Harry was already shaking his head again as he retook his seat, seeing that Dolph was winding down with the questioning.

“You’re not magical like I am so you can’t tell but necromancy, animation, vaudun, whatever you want to call it, it leaves magical traces the equivalent to someone like me as a rotting carcass. It stinks to put it bluntly. It's not a pure discipline but a mixture of several areas of magic that when combined offers nothing but corruption like adding bleach to ammonia creates a toxic vapor. We find it repulsive for the most part, maybe one of my people in a million will mess with it. It _was_ a necromancer though I couldn’t speak to how powerful one without seeing one of their actual kill sites in person. After all,” his expression was tired and sardonic. “They didn’t get what they were after this time.”

A male in scrubs with exhaustion and the tail-end of a twelve hour shift written across his face pushed through the Staff Only doors a few moments later.

“Sirius Black?”

“Excuse me, Sergeant.”

“Of course.”

…

Dr. Marcus Fletcher, emergency surgeon at St. Louis General Hospital and Ulfric of the Thronnos Rokke Pack - one title that was ironically threatened by the other - was weary to his bones.

As an alpha werewolf, _the_ alpha werewolf in St. Louis, his stamina was better than any of his human colleagues. Even so, at the end of a twelve hour shift repairing everything from arterial bleeds to organs on the edge of rupturing he was tired of the scent of blood, puss, disinfectant and antiseptics clogging his nose. _Pain_ and agony both had scents, a truth that humans were nose-blind to but no shifter or vampire could ever dismiss. Depression, grief, anything and everything that had a scent marker or could combine into a scent pile left its mark in a person’s unique scent.

Being an emergency surgeon, his nose and hearing were boons that allowed him to catch health issues that would pass by his human cohort.

They could also be a curse that threatened to overwhelm him if he wasn’t careful.

Marcus has _always_ been careful. Turned as a child, he wasn’t the largest, strongest, or even fiercest wolf in St. Louis. He was, however, without a doubt the most intelligent.

Which like his enhanced senses could be as much a curse as it was a blessing when he saw an issue but found it one of such tangled complexity and cancerous growth that he found himself stymied to find a way out, around, or through it.

When he was younger he thought that living through his residency at the same time as he’d taken over as Ulfric was the most exhausting period he would ever live through.

He’d been wrong.

The weight of his current personal problems threatened to crush him and he couldn’t escape them anywhere but at the hospital, his work and calling becoming his refuge as well.

That said, when Sirius Black was brought in by a vampire with a through-and-through hole several inches in circumference just below his ribcage on his left side, only having an hour left on his shift or not, Marcus jumped forward to take the surgery before one of his fresher fellows could be assigned.

He didn’t need the vampire - one of Jean-Claude’s - to ask for him or roll the others to convince him to take care of the man.

They all knew Nikolaos was a problem that made his own monkey on his back look sane.

The shifter community was trying to hedge their bets, many of them picking Jean-Claude as the proverbial horse to back, meanwhile if things were different Marcus would’ve been working with the shifters to form their own unified power to challenge the vampires’ stranglehold on authority altogether.

Only with an internal power struggle ongoing within the Pack that most of the other alphas acted like he was deaf-dumb-and-blind to, it was hardly the time for Marcus to try such a manuever when any of the other shifter leaders - like, say, Gabriel the leader of the Pard - to point out his issues controlling his own wolves let alone the rest of the shifters in the territory.

Someone trying to permanently take out Jean-Claude’s pet witch could only be a strike against the best hope they currently had to take out Nikolaos and _that_ even Marcus knew they couldn’t afford with the shifters unwilling or unable to step up.

Black didn’t have a shifter’s healing, but nothing human punched through muscles and skin and vessels and tendons leaving a gaping hole in him.

“No edge marks.” Marcus noted for the record, as with any emergency surgery the microphones in the operating room were turned on in case the transcript or actual recording with the observations of the surgeon and nurses needed to be presented in a trial. “Or burns from gunfire.”

“What did this?” One of the nurses asked even as she suctioned away blood and fluids to give him a clearer view of the blood vessels he was repairing.

“The vampire who brought him in said ghoul.” Marcus said, thinking even as he set precise stitches and listened for more leaks or the scent of fresh blood under the complex and overpowering stench of an OR. “Seems about right to me given that most of these wounds are from blunt force trauma and resulting tears not sharp edge cuts from claws.”

And he would know, as most of the time he saw wounds like this there _were_ claws involved even if his wolves healed from their fights faster than would require his professional assistance.

Though shifters were fonder of going for the throat, they’d try for the belly to weaken their opponent before tearing out a heart.

It was hours of delicate work piecing Black back together and suturing him closed before Marcus was able to strip off his protective equipment.

Against all odds with a gaping hole in his abdomen, Black had survived surgery.

Whether he made it through the night or not, that was someone else’s problem until he popped his stitches or presented with issues that pointed to Marcus missing something during his patch job.

Not likely but it _could_ happen even to him.

He was an alpha werewolf not omniscient.

Marcus stripped out of his bloody scrubs and into a fresh set, tossing his surgeon’s cap into the Hazardous Materials laundry bin and feeling his hair flop forward a bit across his forehead that he shoved at hopelessly.

He was well beyond his actual shift by the time he pushed through the doors out into the waiting room to find Storr from RPIT - it always paid to know who the players were even if they didn’t know who _you_ were in turn. If anything it was preferred.

Waiting in the classic _worried family member pose_ despite speaking to Storr could only be the apprentice-slash-godson he’d heard about through the preternatural rumor mill.

Two of his wolves might work for Jean-Claude but they were still _his,_ along with any members of the pack who chose to play blood donor for either Jean-Claude or any other vampire in the city - though in the case of the latter it was Jean-Claude who was more likely to go all territorial about it than Marcus.

What his wolves did in their private lives was theirs to manage - unless or until it affected the pack anyway.

Marcus ran his eyes over the godson quickly before calling “Sirius Black” for family members to come get answers and information.

He’d already been told by the nurses that his “son” was waiting - which was interesting - and found that the son or godson whichever was the truth or maybe even a combination of the two was certainly handsome enough to be related to Black.

The frustrating asshole who tended to rile up the more prickly members of the pack was many things but notably among them was a very handsome man.

Short though, Marcus blinked a bit as the young man stood and strode over. A couple inches shorter than Marcus’s own average five-eight. He wore it well though, with a posture that spoke to training in how to walk and carry himself.

Again like Black.

It was the scar that snagged Marcus’s attention for a split second that the younger man seemed to catch if the flicker of frustration that crossed his face was any sign.

Marcus couldn’t really help it even if he didn’t focus on it.

Call it professional curiosity, he couldn’t help but wonder what sort of injury caused it?

“I’m his son, Harry.” Harry was doing an inspection of his own as had become his norm since having “healthy levels of caution regarding new acquaintances” drummed into his head by Phineas Nigellus. “How is he?”

“I’m Dr. Fletcher, the surgeon in charge of his case. He made it through surgery.”

Harry blew out a relieved breath as the older man - though that age didn’t diminish the impact of frost-blue eyes, ash blond hair falling onto his forehead to soften lines from what Harry was tagging as stress, and strongly masculine features - gave him the good news. Well, man wasn't quite accurate. Even with exhaustion dripping from him it did nothing to dilute the sheer impact of the male's raw power. The Ulfric himself with vitality radiating from him for those in tune with it or Harry was a graphorn.

“The injury was severe but located in a position that kept any major trauma from occurring to his organs, though the repairs to muscles, tendons, and so on required were significant.” Marcus continued to explain his latest patient’s status. “He’ll be kept under monitoring in the ICU for the next twenty four hours at the least…”

Before he could continue, the sound of running feet on linoleum distracted them both as well as Storr who was standing back and clearly listening but not being intrusive about it.

Harry smiled a little bit as a tall form layered with healthily muscled bulk rounded the corner of the hallway.

“Harry!” Rafael managed to keep his voice to just under a shout at the sight of his... _something_ they haven’t had the label discussion yet, safe and sound. “When I was told you were at the hospital I thought the worst!”

Rushing forward and dodging neatly around the mountain with legs he recognized - but couldn’t give a flying fuck about at the moment - as the team lead for RPIT, Rafael snatched Harry up in a squeezey hug, kissing him firmly on the head, cheek, brow, and then mouth as sheer _relief_ rushed through him.

“ _I’m_ fine, Rafael.” Harry returned the hug, leaning into the kisses just a bit, then brought his potential lover back down to earth as he leaned back in wordless request for him to put Harry back onto his own two feet. “Sirius is the one that the doctor was just telling me about.”

Rafael shared a _look_ with Marcus over Harry’s head, one filled with warning mingled with respect.

He may not always _care_ for Marcus but that was his personal issue from a Rom’s standpoint.

As a surgeon he’d never heard anything but the best about him so he’d let it be.

“And with all due respect, doctor.” Harry set his jaw, ready to beg, borrow, steal, and spell whoever or whatever it took to get his way. For Sirius there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do. “Someone just sent a half-dozen ghouls to attack him. If you want to keep him under observation that’s fine, but I’ll be staying to guard him if that’s the case.”

“It would be _technically_ against the hospital's policy.” Marcus traded glances with Rafael and Storr though for very different reasons before meeting dark green eyes once more. “However when there is a clear and present danger to a patient there is a matter of precedent for allowing a guard so long as they do not try to interfere with the staff’s ability to care for the patient.”

“Whatever it takes.” Harry nodded shortly. “All I need is a chair.”

“Alright then,” Marcus shoved his hands into his pant pockets as he turned. “I’ll make the arrangements with the staff and come back to show you to his room once he’s been settled by the nursing staff.”

“Thank you, Dr. Fletcher.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Black.”

Rafael waited for the doors to shut behind the Ulfric then shot his _something_ an arch look.

“Why did he call you Mr. Black, Harry?”

Harry just shrugged, batting innocent eyes up at the Rom.

Storr snorted behind them and bid Potter and his boyfriend goodbye.

The kid had given him a lead to run down and given how popular animating was as a lucrative career, he and his team were going to be at it for a while.

…

“Still here?” Marcus asked when he showed up for his next shift that night just before dusk and found Green Eyes sitting in the chair that he’d brought in personally to Black’s ICU room for him.

The clothes he was wearing were different, a soft looking sweater in a rich red over a pair of black jeans gone grey from wear. Either he’d gone home at some point or someone had brought him clothes, most likely the Rom since Marcus had smelled enough of the wererat on the younger man to denote a relationship of some kind was going on even if they didn’t have the ground-in scent of lust and spunk and sex that gave away lovers to a shifter’s nose. He might’ve even slept at some point since he didn’t look or smell exhausted either.

If anything, he seemed much more alert and on guard than he’d been when they met.

Whether that would work towards Marcus’s benefit or not remained to be seen.

“I left for a couple hours where Rafael watched him for me.” Harry admitted with a slight shrug, standing and rolling his shoulders at the doctor’s entrance.

He’d been a handsome sight exhausted and in rumpled scrubs.

In a white lab coat over a pristine button down, tie, and slacks he was a whole different level of attractive.

Too bad for Harry’s overactive (lately anyway, maybe there was something in the water…) libido however, Marcus struck him as _taken_ in a way that was a visceral warning even without flicking his vision over to see magic.

Which...yikes.

No wonder he was weary.

Harry struggled about whether to mention at least some of what he saw, feeling like the dumbest of creatures that he’d been so tired last night - early this morning rather - that he hadn't even bothered to look, even _after_ he'd felt the power coming from the Ulfric.

Bone-deep exhaustion and worry having trumped his curiosity at least for the moment.

In the end though it came down to just one thing to Harry.

“You saved his life.” Harry told him, sincerely thankful. “I know I already said it but thank you.” He held out his hand, shaking firmly with the werewolf and noting that his grasp was hotter than he was used to, even from Rafael who ran a bit warmer than vanilla humans from the lycanthropy. Must be a shifter thing that varied from species to species. “I’m Hari Potter, you can call me Harry. Sirius is my father or godfather depending on how you look at it. We’re in your debt. What was done to him was more than magic could fix without a lot of specialized knowledge and practice I don’t possess.”

Marcus had a moment where he wanted to get into how Black could be both his father and/or godfather _depending on how he looked at it_ but decided that that was likely a magical black hole he didn’t want to lose himself down at the beginning of his work shift.

“It’s my calling, Mr. Potter.” Marcus told him honestly. “Being a surgeon was what I was born to do.”

“Shame, then.” Harry made the active decision to interfere, even if nobody involved thanked him for it and despite already having an overflowing amount of bullshit to wade through on his plate. One good turn deserves another. He’d heard enough in half-whispers and implications and rumors swiftly shut down to know that there was something wrong with the wolves in St. Louis and definitely with the leopards. He wouldn’t let this one be pulled under after he saved Sirius. “That that bond you carry is poisoning you and everyone connected to you.”

Marcus stiffened like a red hot poker was shoved up his spine, holding in the urge to snarl as his eyes glowed with his wolf in offense.

“I _beg your pardon?”_

“I guess that bit hasn’t made the rounds yet, huh?” Harry cocked his head to the side, standing hip-shot with his arms crossed over his chest. “My magical specialty is bonds and binding magics. I can see them. See their state and often their purpose. The main secondary bond you carry, Dr. Fletcher, is pure poison. Whoever is on the other end of it I wouldn’t want near me and mine in a thousand years.”

Marcus spluttered, caught flat-footed for the first time in _years_ and by a little witch with green eyes that were far too earnest in that moment for him to rip out his pretty bronzed throat.

“Think about it, Dr. Fletcher.” Harry said, retaking his seat with nonchalant ease, as if he hadn’t just rocked the very foundations of the Ulfric’s world. “I owe you a debt for saving Sirius. Removing such a bond would be commensurate I expect, for all that you likely won’t thank me for it at first.”

Oh, Harry knew all _about_ Marcus Fletcher and the _issues_ going on with the Thronnos Rokke Pack.

Rafael had seen fit to educate him when he mentioned doing something to repay the surgeon.

He didn’t think the Ulfric would take him up on it, at least not immediately.

But even if all he succeeded in doing was making the wolf _think_ then he’ll have at least tried.

It was more than any of the other assholes in the city had done in the last few years if he had the timeline straight, the others powerful enough to smack the Ulfric round the ears and make him fix things being content to sit smug in their own superiority or take advantage of the pack’s struggles.

In the end sometimes that’s all anyone could do: try.

It was up to the one neck deep and drowning to take the hand offered him or let the tide suck them under if they couldn’t fight free of their own accord.

Fletcher might still lose himself out of pride.

But that was up to him.

Harry’d made the offer.

Fletcher had to take it.

…

“How is he, _mon petit sorcier?”_

Harry lifted his head from where he’d been resting his forehead against Sirius’s limp arm on the hospital bed.

There in all his glory was Jean-Claude, complete with hip-hugging clingy white leather pants topped with another of his lacy silk shirts. This one was deep eggplant purple so dark it was almost black, lending an almost violet tint to his dark blue eyes, lace edging his long sleeves and the actually buttoned-up high collar of the shirt that for once wasn’t opened almost or entirely to the hem. His black curls tumbled around his shoulders with a glossy shine even in the piss-poor lighting of the harsh hospital bulbs.

And in his hand was a single perfect rose the exact same color as his shirt that he reached out and tucked delicately behind Harry’s ear in a gesture far too smooth for it not to have been practiced a hundred or more times before.

“Still alive.” Harry told him gruffly, voice harsh from the near-doze he’d been falling in and out of since Rafael had had to go get some sleep. He’d appreciated the Rom keeping him company, keeping him grounded and sane while Sirius seemed to fight for every breath on the stark hospital bed. But even alpha shifters needed to rest sometime.

The condition that Fletcher had been in the night before after getting out of Sirius’s surgery was proof enough of that.

“Once he wakes up I can have him moved and take over his care, but until then it’s too risky to try magic to speed things up.” Harry continued after snagging a glass of water off a tray and gulping some down. “All I can do is wait.”

“He will wake, Harry.” Jean-Claude told him surely. “I can hear his heart beating strong. His breaths are easy. He rests. When he is ready he will wake and all will be well in time.”

“In time.” Harry echoed nodding, fire snapping to life in an instant as he stared down at his godfather who was still too-pale under his tan from blood loss. “Perhaps. But I don’t believe, friend or not, that you would leave the protections of your club to reassure me when you could have easily known his prognosis without coming in person.” He looked up at the tall, elegant vampire. “What do you want from me, Jean-Claude?”

“I want you, _mon petit sorcier.”_ Jean-Claude arched a brow at him, glancing towards the rose. “I have not been shy in this matter.”

“You want me, sure.” Harry nodded, he could believe that as indeed Jean-Claude hadn’t played games about it. “What _all_ do you want from me? If you wanted a paramour there was no need to come here tonight. You had to know I would’ve understood staying safe given the circumstances and everything that has happened. You’ve had something in mind almost since the moment you saw me in your club. You know what I want. You heard me just fine in that alley last night. So: what do you _want_ , Jean-Claude,” his voice turned fierce. “I won’t ask again. I don’t have _time_ for games while someone is after my godfather’s head walking around free as a bird and Sirius lays wounded and vulnerable in this bed.”

“In this moment an answer, _mon féroce._ ” Jean-Claude side-stepped if only for a moment. “You have the power to seek your vengeance without any help and I believe to such a degree that it would be no matter if it was known to be at your hand. Why worry about my wants and desires when they are no obstacle to gaining your own?”

“Because you _care.”_ Harry told him plainly, clawing onto his patience with the aged and seasoned political beast that was a master vampire with the edges of his fingernails. “You worry for your people, you care that Sirius got hurt, you helped him when I wasn’t here. You probably talk a good game and will make an excellent tyrant when needs-be to keep the peace but you _want_ that peace. That makes you better than ninety percent of the people I’ve ever met. I’m going after her. Whether I do it as an _extension_ of your will or of my own accord is a slim line between an easy transition and a bloody one. What do you want, Jean-Claude? I know it’s not just in my bed. I’m not stupid and I’ve been warned about my power. From what I can see, a vampire is going to try and push me into the marks one way or another. Freedom of choice is a precious thing to me. Choosing _you_ will keep me from slaughtering my way through your people when ones start showing up that won’t take no for an answer.”

The darkness that lurked inside him terrified him at times. Times where he thought that maybe Dumbledore hadn't been _completely_ wrong for binding him. It never lasted but a moment but the thought persisted. Harry utterly unchained led the way to another Bellatrix LeStrange if he wasn't careful.

A queue of vampires lining up to force him into a new form of bondage was the sort of thing that filled Sirius's nightmares but it was the _results_ of them trying that drenched Harry's dreams in oceans of blood and maelstroms of fire and ash.

Jean-Claude was the first vampire he met, yes. In many ways they barely knew each other. But anyone that Sirius called friend and meant it wouldn't be the worst option he could take that didn't involve him going back into seclusion or burning the vampire population to cinders.

“So certain I want you for my human servant, _mon féroce?”_ Jean-Claude was a bit bemused to have been read so well and clearly by such a comparatively young human. Until one looked into his eyes at least. Then it becomes clear that years lived had no bearing on this one’s experiences. “When I have never deigned to take one before in all my years as a vampire?” He clucked his tongue a bit mocking. “Sirius did say you were cocky.”

“I’m just not an idiot.” Harry reiterated dryly, leaning his head back and arching his neck before mocking Jean-Claude right back with a click of his tongue. “I can feel that you’re powerful enough to win a fight against Nikolaos if you arrange things the right way. The only reason I can see that you _haven’t_ isn’t her but what comes after.”

“ _Naturellement,”_ Jean-Claude’s motion could never be called anything so pedestrian as a mere shrug. “Any brute can _take,_ keeping is often another matter.”

“Then you need more power and as a master vampire the only way for yours to increase is with age and even then it’s a dreadfully slow process once you’ve plateaued. Binding a human servant with power of their own however,” he tilted his head with a coy little smile. “That’s a different story. Give and take. I give you more power, I take the right to walk right into the Circus of the Damned and tear my pound of flesh out of Nikolaos and have it fall under the traditions of vampire politics. Nice and clean for everyone involved, no?”

“And what comes after, _mon féroce?”_ Jean-Claude asked. “When you’ve taken your desired revenge for your godfather’s state, when the dust settles, will you unbind yourself as you’ve shown the ability to do with vampire and progeny, a bond as you called it of blood and ancient magic? Or will you wait a year, maybe two before leaving me to stand alone while you return to your home, take your were lover and your godfather with you?” He made a scoffing noise in his throat, a sneer crossing his face. “You asked what I want? I want your loyalty. The same loyalty that brought you away from the rest of your people to a strange land with strange laws and filled with people that would look at you as a _snack_ to find Sirius. I want the fierce heart that laughs with joy and thirsts for vengeance. I want the man who _dares_ when others cower. I want _you._ Your power, yes of course, I'm not a fool. But _you_ as well. Not for a night, not for a year. I want you for as long as we both walk this earth.” Jean-Claude slid down onto his knees between Harry’s splayed legs, taking hold of his hands that had gone limp with shock as his eyes shot wide at his passionate declaration. “Your looks caught my eye. Your power my attention. But it was how you tracked Sirius across the globe and treat the weakest shifter the same as the most powerful that _captured_ my regard. So I do not know what your favorite food is or the sounds of your passion. These things will come with time. Time we may not _have_ if you regard my every move with suspicion on one hand and desire with the other.”

Harry stared down into those deep blue eyes for long moments, only the sound of the machines monitoring the silence between them.

“My history with cunning men is not the best to say the least.” Harry admitted to what was causing a good portion of his reluctance. “Quid pro quo seems safer when dealing with twisty thinkers, at least then I _know_ they’re after something instead of having to be wary of it.” He sucked in a bracing breath then blew it out, looking away then back. “How do the marks work? I’ve seen them in action but don’t know their fashioning.”

Jean-Claude’s smile was a beautiful thing, truly breath-taking.

Leave it to Sirius to groan dramatically from the bed before he could explain.

“Please just kill me.” Sirius whimpered, cracking open an eye and turning his head to mock-glare at his godson and friend. “I can’t handle anymore drama. _I’m_ supposed to be the resident Drama King. A guy gets on the wrong end of a ghoul _once_ and everyone comes around to take his _title.”_

Sirius let out a little _ooph_ of breath on ‘title’ as he found himself being glomped with a hundred-and-some pounds of ecstatic godson who’d almost knocked Jean-Claude to the floor when he darted out of his chair and over to the bed.

Jean-Claude merely shook his head ruefully and leaned against the foot of Sirius’s bed.

While it was true that their time was limited, it wouldn’t be long before Nikolaos discovered he was away from his club, there was more than time enough for the worst of Harry’s worries to be put to rest.

What came after between them was a matter for privacy, not audiences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Google Translate ‘mon féroce’ can be both my fierce one and my ferocious one. If this is wrong please let me know because I’m trying to slowly transition Harry’s pet names from JC from ones that are distant or distant in their descriptions (i.e. filleul, godson; mon petit sorcier, my little sorcerer) to what have I picked out for his final diminutives (depending on his mood) of ‘mon cher’ or my darling and 'petit monstre' or little monster.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have a feeling that this chapter is going to induce the marmite effect given the comments on the last chapter. I hope you all enjoy it regardless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're starting to earn that "E" rating with this chapter so be aware going forward that you might run into steamy, sexy, or smutty situations.
> 
> There also is a moment where a character gets stripped and cleaned up while they're thought unconscious by the person performing the act, so please be aware of that if it's a trigger for you. There's nothing sexual about it, but it does happen.

**Ancient Bonds**

**Chapter Eight:** **_Ardeur_ **

With Sirius on the mend - and ejecting Harry out of his hospital room until Marcus cleared him for magical healing since Luthor had been sent by Dave to play bodyguard - Harry was free to return home.

Leaving Sirius’s room with Jean-Claude at his side and one of the vampire’s cool, elegant hands resting on his lower back, he shot Jean-Claude a questioning glance as he led them over to the deep shadows of the building and turned Harry to face him head-on.

Jean-Claude merely arched a brow with a challenging little smile before reaching up and snagging the rose he’d tucked behind his ear earlier.

Pressing it into Harry’s hand, Jean-Claude took advantage of Harry’s acquiescence - however brief it ended up being - to wrap his arms around Jean-Claude’s shoulders then rested his own on Harry’s hip and back before pulling him close as if they were about to dance.

“Hold on.” Was all the warning the master vampire gave and then they were lifting off the ground.

Jean-Claude carried Harry’s weight with ease, not faltering a moment - which gave him some naughty ideas as he wasn’t kidding himself. Their arrangement may start out as an _arrangement_ but he rather doubted from Jean-Claude’s declaration of intent from earlier that it was going to stay anything like a business deal or basic quid pro quo. It definitely wasn’t going to be a cold, clinical, or business-like exchange of power and authority by the time everything was said and done.

He _was_ however going to make _damn sure_ that Jean-Claude had to work to keep him and _keep_ working to keep him for as long as they were bound, otherwise Jean-Claude might find his nightmare of having Harry break their bond coming true quicker than the Frenchman could say _non._

Harry closed his eyes putting his worries aside for a moment, a soft smile curving his lips as he rested the tips of his boots on top of Jean-Claude’s own, tilting his head back and purely _enjoying_ the rush of the cool August night air caressing his face as Jean-Claude flew them across the city.

It lasted only a minute or two, Harry pouting a bit as he opened his eyes when Jean-Claude slowed and then set down back on the land with a whisper of dust under his boots.

“You love to fly.” Jean-Claude stated, in clear surprise. Even the most magically adept humans he’d been around in the past tended to at least startle a _little_ bit when a vampire flew them somewhere the first time. Expecting it or not, there was something about _flight_ that always seemed to be an object of either envy or fear. “I must take you again when time is not so pressing.”

Harry softly stepped off of Jean-Claude’s feet and back onto solid ground, twirling the short stem of the purple rose in his fingers then tucking it back behind his ear.

“You should.” He easily agreed with that idea. “I do love to fly.”

“Hmmm.” Jean-Claude hummed, eyeing the wizard speculatively. There was so little it turned out he _knew_ about their - Sirius and now Harry’s - abilities it seemed. Going forward he would have to take care not to dismiss their idle words as fanciful notions while simultaneously not expecting them to pull miracles out of thin air.

There appeared no way to truly _know_ what they were capable of unless he’d seen it for himself or heard it from a reputable source.

Given that it was clear both of them were adept at the art of deception through various means without outright lying and being caught by the vampires and weres around them.

Whether by omission, prevarication, dissembling, or equivocation, when it came to keeping secrets, they were more than practiced at hiding in plain sight.

Skills that Jean-Claude tended to wield skillfully himself.

He would simply have to convince them that they had no _need_ for such with him while encouraging it against others.

Jean-Claude watched carefully, filing away both the entirety of the moment as well as details as Harry led him over to the the gate of his property staying a mere step behind the wizard.

He felt a laugh threaten as he took in the contents of Harry’s warning signs, then had to smile as he felt the strength of the magic surrounding the wizard’s property.

He no longer had doubts about Harry’s power, but even so they were impressive as they brushed, _testing reaching searching judging_ against his skin and even reaching into his very _mind_ before whisking away as if they’d never been as the gate slid open.

“Don’t stray off the drive.” Harry warned him as he passed through and came up to walk beside the young wizard. “You’re not truly _safe_ from the wards until I write you in to the exceptions.”

“These are very different than those of your _parrain._ ” Jean-Claude noted, taking in the half-finished property. The landscaping appeared a work in progress to his eyes and the garage a bit of a late edition compared to the house, but it had the potential to be a lovely residence in whole and not merely in part once Harry and his pet Rom were finished with it.

And he knew a gaggle of vampires who would pay Harry’s weight in gold for a wall like the one he’d fashioned to surround his property.

Jean-Claude, rather shamelessly, had to include himself in that number.

It was an exquisite piece of workmanship and a silent testament to the kind of magic Harry was capable of when he was so inclined.

Layers upon layers, his new favorite human was certainly the little mystery.

“Sirius is reactive, always has been.” Harry told him, thinking of how every story from the Marauder’s time at Hogwarts had been filled with examples. Backing Harry’s father, always the one to finish a fight, even running away not due to Walburga pushing him too far but because he disagreed with who (according to Orion who would know) they had arranged for him to marry. Sirius had never been the best at forethought. Almost using Remus to murder Snape was a prime example of that as far as he was concerned. Lashing out or being cowed _after_ the fact on the other hand was very on-brand for the former Black Lord. “Eye for an eye. His wards will prevent some things but are mainly geared to reacting to an action.”

“And yours?”

Jean-Claude might as well asked _and you?_

Harry shot him an amused glance. “I’m all about survival.” He thought a moment on how best to frame his and Sirius’s vastly different ethics.

“Sirius knows I killed the witch who caused his presumed death four years ago.” He decided on some truth mixed with a warning as he unlocked the wards on the house itself with a wave of his hand then went inside, inviting Jean-Claude in and letting him look around for a moment as he gathered what he needed to write the vampire into the wards. He set the master ward book on the kitchen island with a black quill next to it then continued with his example. “He’s fine with that since she was a known murderer, torturer, and had a list of crimes and outright evils to her name a mile long. If he knew _how_ I killed her it would be a different story.”

Jean-Claude found Harry’s home to be a bit sparse still with marks of being newly occupied, but thought it had a warmth to it that was the work of its owner.

Even if the smell of arousal and wizard and wererat Rom nearly wafted off of the couch in the living room.

“How so?”

“Because she wasn’t the only one I killed with the bloodline curse I cast.” Harry’s lips curved as dark delight flashed in his eyes. His story was arranged and curated to keep that it came from another world altogether a secret, but the heart of it remained the same nonetheless. “A necromancer had placed his mark on hundreds of my kind, using his makeshift army to wage a guerrilla war against the rest of us. Due to how pared down we are in recent years, at seventeen I became the head of two bloodlines. So on that Halloween I cast a bloodline curse that burned everyone of the necromancer’s marked servants who were under my domain alive.” His expression was cynical. “Sirius would be fine with Bellatrix, had his own grudge against her, but likely the rest in his mind should’ve been given a trial for their crimes instead of slaughtered when perhaps they didn’t deserve to be executed.” He opened the ward book to the page he needed. “In my opinion an enemy that’s dead can’t come back to kill you or those you care about.”

“Scorched earth policy.” Jean-Claude could appreciate that considering how many of his kind would like to see him humbled or returned to being the slave of the Council. “If the only skeletons in your closet _are_ skeletons they can’t strike against you on their own accord.”

“Exactly.” Harry grinned. “My wards are designed with that in mind. They look for intent not for action. If someone can make it through the outer wards with ill-intent towards myself or Sirius, the ones on the house and outbuildings will ensure they live to regret it and then I’ll handle the rest personally.” He picked up the blood quill with none of his distaste visible. There were other ways to do this but he wasn’t to the place of trusting Jean-Claude enough to show him the control stone for the wards. “This is a blood quill, enchanted specifically to use blood to seal magical contracts. In this case if you write your full name,” he tapped the place on the page. “It will take a reading of your identity and allow you full access to my house, garage, and grounds while keeping you out of areas that would be dangerous to you.”

“Such as?” Jean-Claude arched a brow but was willing to go along. He blinked and murmured _“captivant”_ as the quill - a device he hadn’t used in years - drew the shapes and letters of his full name in crimson on the page before the blood _sank_ into the paper of the book and turned black with a soft pulse of power.

“Let’s leave it as dangerous for the moment.” Harry decided, flicking his wrist and sending the book and quill back to their spots in the kitchen drawer in an absent flex of power.

It gained him another of those heated-but-considering glances from Jean-Claude but he wasn’t surprised by that any longer.

Sirius had warned him about vampires liking power.

What did surprise him on the other hand was that Jean-Claude hadn’t swiftly extricated himself from having anything to do with Harry now that he’d seen first hand how easily he could be his end.

Better for Jean-Claude than against him in his mind, Harry supposed.

Pragmatism that was often hidden under tight leather, falls of lace, and a seductive smile.

Jean-Claude was a Slytherin down to his bones if he’d have been Sorted.

A survivor.

Harry could work with a survivor, could count on him to prioritize his own survival and that of those who help ensure it.

Those like Sirius.

“Now that that’s done.” Harry ushered Jean-Claude over to his U-shaped couch, settling himself at one end and removing his boots and socks - that marched themselves up the stairs to put themselves away much to Jean-Claude’s genuine bemusement - before curling up with his feet on the cushion with his arms around his knees. Harry situated himself facing Jean-Claude who lounged - there was no other way to describe it - as indolent as a cat within arm’s reach but not crowding. “The marks. What are they, what do they do, how are they placed?” He waved a hand in an _and so on_ twirl before wrapping it back around to rest over his legs.

“I have never had a human servant in all my years.” Jean-Claude chose that as an appropriate place to start given all the _many_ warnings he’s had over playing games with his ferocious little monster of a sorcerer. “So much of what I know is academic, you understand?”

He waited for Harry to nod, everything about him reading as thoughtful and listening. Jean-Claude paused a moment before doing so as it occurred to him that this was the first time - even when he’d been watching but Harry unaware - that he’d ever seen him _restful_. A moment to remember. Then he continued.

“You have already discovered for yourself that the marks are magical bonds between a vampire and a non-vampire. With a lycanthrope it is known as the vampire’s specific animal to call. With anyone else it is known as a human servant.”

“The mechanics are the same, there’s no variation?”

“None.” Jean-Claude agreed. “The process that we are taught are identical for both processes though with a were it is with the understanding that it is not to be attempted on a species that is not that vampire’s to call.”

Harry filed that away because he wasn’t hearing that it was _impossible_ for a vampire to mark a species that wasn’t theirs to call just that it shouldn’t be _attempted_ for whatever reason but this wasn’t the time for him to pester Jean-Claude with that line of inquiry when he was being forthcoming with the details of what he’d already agreed to.

Or at least his agreement was implied and Jean-Claude and Sirius had both taken it that way, for all that Sirius had only studied him somberly before nodding rather than openly question what he’d awoken to.

"In either case the original purpose behind the marks is to create the daytime eyes and ears of a vampire." Jean-Claude waved a hand airily as most would agree that the effect on both sides is far more profound and less cut-and-dry than that. “A human servant or animal to call, to give an example you may be familiar with, functions similarly to a witch's familiar in that when the servant is nearby, the vampire's abilities are stronger, I have seen this for myself. As I have that the death of either the servant or the vampire may injure or kill the other member of the relationship. Though,” his pursed lips carefully hid the still open and weeping wound this subject in particular tore into him whenever it was brought up. “I have only seen the effect on a vampire outliving their human servant. It created a lust and desire for vengeance unlike anything I have seen before in the vampire as the human was killed most mercilessly.”

Harry _knew_ there had to be more to it than that, Jean-Claude’s control of his face, body, and voice was perfection but his _eyes_ still told stories of unspeakable grief, but he let it be with the knowledge that if he ever needed to strike at his “master” he’d know exactly where to stab and twist the knife.

“The bond as you have seen is meant to be eternal.” Jean-Claude reached out and traced an X on the back of one of Harry’s hands. “Four marks, that together create the bond that allows a human to join a master vampire - usually - in their unending years. Never aging, never dying with some of the powers but none of the same weaknesses as their master.”

Harry hummed, feeling his skin tingle where Jean-Claude had traced.

“Twenty forever?”

“Or as long as the bond exists.” Jean-Claude corrected. “Though it would take an incredibly strong human or extremely weak bond to break without killing the human involved. The first two marks are the giving and taking of power. The second two of blood. In order they cause: the human servant gains greater endurance, healing, speed and resistance to vampire mental powers, and an almost complete immunity to their own vampire's mental powers. Second, allows the vampire to draw power from the human servant, to experience food and drink consumed by the servant, and to enter the servant's dreams. Third, grants the servant full endurance and allows the vampire and servant to communicate mentally even when the vampire rests. Fourth and last conveys immortality to the servant, almost complete mental communication, and allows the servant to draw on the vampire's strength.”

Harry turned that sequence over in his mind, one particular caveat jumping out at him.

“Has any vampire gained the ability to cast or use magic from sharing power and blood with a witch or necromancer or any other kind of magic user?”

“If they have, they wisely kept it secret.” Jean-Claude told him after searching his memory for a moment, despite such an occurrence being the sort of thing one tends to remember. “As the bond ages and strengthens, more effects are felt or gain in strength. I have seen Burchard perform acts of strength beyond most shifters, but he was bound almost as soon as Nikolaos gained the ability to manage it or so the tales go.”

“You’ll have to watch your temper then, once this is done.” A cheeky grin crossed Harry’s face. “Since one of the first signs one of my kind has that they’ve inherited our abilities is accidental outbursts of magic in response to stress.” He stretched out, one leg swinging down to brush his bare toes against the cool wood floor. 

Curiosity appeased - at least for the moment - as from what he could tell Jean-Claude had been honest with what he knew about the marks.

“Bleed through is not uncommon.” Jean-Claude allowed. “Though in most cases it is meant in the terms of personality and instincts than it does such a phenomenon as your magic.”

“What do you mean?”

“I do not know that it will affect one such as you, _mon petit sorcier.”_ Jean-Claude wished he had more or better information but those who take the risk of marking a human servant rather than an animal to call - though the latter for whatever reason doesn’t extend immortality to the were in question - are few and far between. “Your resistance to rolling may keep you untouched by my powers in other ways or prevent a trait I have from heightening or becoming your own. A pair I once knew had the human experience cravings for foods that she’d never previously enjoyed while the vampire was much softer, less rigid and vicious than he had been before her, at least around those he called friend.”

“Is there a certain way I’ll be expected to behave?” His grin had settled into a mere touch of humor around his mouth. He didn’t personally think they were so very different that either of them might appear to gain a trait they didn’t already have. Survivors, both of them, yes but survivors could survive using different skills and by developing different attitudes much like the differences between Harry and Sirius.

Perhaps he’d pick up some of Jean-Claude’s apparent romanticism. Rafael likely wouldn’t complain if that was the case.

Though what effect he could have on a master vampire several centuries old he didn’t begin to ponder. 

“I don’t know if I can pull off deferential or calling you master.” He grimaced a bit as a pantomime of it played out in his mind's eye. “Definitely not unless under dire circumstances on the latter.”

“Your daring is one of the things about you I find fascinating, _mon feroce,”_ Jean-Claude smiled indulgently. “There’s some protocol you’ll need to know, especially if you succeed in your stated desire to effect a change in leadership in the city. Otherwise that you do not take a lover without informing me as while anyone with sense would see that one such as you will never truly _belong_ to anyone but yourself, that is still how other vampires will see you.”

“As property.” Harry wrinkled his nose with a moue of distaste. Well, it wasn’t like he didn’t have practice, albeit his was as public property. Fucking Rita Skeeter. He sighed. “Protected property with the right to flambe anyone who tries to fuck with me once you’re Master of the City but property nonetheless.”

“It is a distasteful truth of our society but it _is_ a truth nonetheless.” Jean-Claude regretted it in fact but couldn’t regret that it gave him such a unique opportunity. As without the ever-lingering threat of other masters trying to force their claim on him, he highly doubted that even if he won Harry into his bed that the wizard would have ever taken his mark. He’d never found pragmatism either endearing _or_ arousing before but Harry seemed to have that effect on him. “Otherwise you will be considered an extension of me and my will. A human _temion_ , for all intents and purposes.”

“And the powers I might gain that you did a merry skip over?” Harry tilted his head to rest against the back of the couch. “I noticed that thing you do with your voice. It has an almost physical presence sometimes.”

“A facet of my power mixing with the _ardeur_ ,” Jean-Claude arched an impressed brow. Every time he thought he had a handle on Harry’s range of magical sensory, he added another facet. “Has Sirius told you of it?”

Harry shook his head. “Likely didn’t think it mattered since my mental shields protect me from anything affecting the mind.”

Such as how Jean-Claude altered and laced his voice with power to manipulate others’ moods or even their minds depending on how he used it, all without having to make eye contact to actually hypnotize someone.

He would’ve had a field day in the wizarding world with that power at his disposal, able to charm donors and glut himself on magical blood without ever lifting a finger.

It was as impressive as it would be terrifying under the right circumstances and Harry was ecstatic that his shields protected him from it even if as his human servant - when the deed was done - he was supposedly protected from it anyway.

“The _ardeur_ is the greatest power of Belle Morte’s line.” Jean-Claude explained emotionlessly, voice going clipped and clinical. “It can also be a great weakness. With it those of us who possess it can control various aspects of lust and sex and though it is rare even love. However, it must also be _fed,_ used to draw sexual energy and desire into the host. If not fed, it will act to feed itself, effectively causing the violation of both the host and whoever is within their immediate range.”

Harry was off put at first by the dip into the arctic Jean-Claude took but then relaxed.

He hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about his weaknesses either, and for all that it sounded like Jean-Claude could gain power from this _ardeur_ it also was a way to weaken and/or torture him if Harry’d been of the mind to do such a thing.

“It is also a double-edged sword.” Jean-Claude’s tone warmed when Harry didn’t react with revulsion or spit out recriminations or demands to know if Jean-Claude had ever been violated in such ways. For all that he could be ferocious - and he was beginning to understand why Sirius called him unforgiving now that he'd seen his desire for bloody vengeance for himself - there was a hidden streak of kindness in him as well. “What we cause in another we run the risk of causing in ourselves. The one of the line - not the sourdre de sang - who can use it to influence love in others runs the risk of falling in love in turn.” He smirked a little, loosening muscles that he hadn’t even realized he’d tensed in anticipation of Harry’s reaction. “Nikolaos forbid me from directly feeding the _ardeur_ but given her... _state_ she doesn’t truly understand it despite being repulsed by all things sexual.”

Harry put the pieces together in an instant, grinning broadly.

“She doesn’t realize that you can use it in minor ways and feed in the club, does she?”

Jean-Claude shook his head, a sly smile of his own crossing his beautiful face.

 _“Non,”_ his tone was pure angelic. _“_ She does not.”

“On the subject of lovers,” Harry circled back around to a point he wanted to make crystal clear. “You know of my relationship with Rafael I’m sure. I won’t be giving him up.”

“ _Non,”_ Jean-Claude waved a hand nonchalantly. “Nor would I expect you to so long as he does not act against us. If I wanted a slave I could have had one centuries ago. I want a partner to walk _with_ me, _Hari._ While I will not play guardian over your bed, I would expect you to give me the same consideration you would like for yourself. Not taking lovers you knew to be objectionable to me, or bedding down with known enemies. Ask, if you are unaware. Personally, I would prefer that you not become involved with any of the Pard, even _mon minet_ Nathaniel, as that is a quagmire that will have to wait for sorting out. And if you wish to take another vampire as a lover, you _do_ ask me first.” His expression as he dragged his eyes over Harry was nothing short of darkly possessive. “Nor share your blood under the same terms.”

“Quid pro quo.” Harry said after musing on Jean-Claude’s terms and finding them livable for the moment. They may need revision later, but at the moment he didn’t foresee anything in the near future that would be a deal-breaker. “For the love of whatever you consider holy: no necromancers, animators, vaudun practitioners or vampires who used to be any of the above.” He shrugged when Jean-Claude arched an amused brow. “Magic leaves traces. Unless you want me forcing you into a cleansing ritual, don’t dip your wick in corrupted magics.”

Jean-Claude threw his head back and laughed at his little sorcerer’s turn of phase.

Crude, but accurate.

And given his own hesitation over people who dabble in death magics, not at all difficult to agree with.

“Agreed.” He nodded, then held out his hand. “Shall we, or do you need more time to think it over? This _will_ be binding, _mon petit sorcier,_ unless you choose to break the bonds, a master has never been able to remove them once the marks have been given.”

“It may not seem like it with how I am, but I was raised from eleven to twenty in a society that has a firm belief in and almost reliance on arranged marriage. If I'd stayed, eventually I likely would've ended up in one whether I wanted it or not." He shrugged, the Black Portraits having put down a lot of the ground work to bring Harry around to their way of thinking on the matter. This arrangement with Jean-Claude wasn't so very different. "I’ve been considering this,” he waved a hand between them then reached out and rested it lightly in Jean-Claude’s. “Ever since I realized that Dave and Luthor are bound together and tagged them as a human servant-vampire pair. Sirius’s explanation filled in a few blanks for me but,” he smiled sheepishly as Jean-Claude closed his hand around his own, his thumb caressing the back of Harry’s hand. “I could see the way it worked in a way he - or anyone not involved - can’t. When the flowers didn’t stop coming I figured this was what you were angling for or something like it.”

“You did not believe I was enthralled by your handsome face and form?” That _did_ surprise Jean-Claude, and had him questioning things even more surrounding Harry.

After all, most people who looked like the young wizard did would _assume_ as a matter of course that they were being pursued because of it.

Harry had never struck him as having esteem issues regarding his looks or attractiveness.

“I figured you wanted to fuck me because of how I look.” Harry corrected his assumption. “But I know how powerful people act. And they don’t immediately go after people in a relationship _and_ with a connection to someone who holds Sirius’s position in your affairs for shallow reasons or else they wouldn’t have ended up as powerful people in the first place if they’re intelligent. Those with real power and the brains to back it up only do things like that for a handful of reasons, the one that made sense for you going after me with my looks, magical ability, and complications was for my power. The way for you to benefit the most from it despite the possibility of alienating me, Sirius, _and_ the Dark Crown Rom would be through the marks.” He shrugged. “It’s simple math for me.”

“You will keep me on my toes, I see.” Jean-Claude rose, pulling Harry up lightly with him and linking their fingers together. “You’re capable of quite _twisty_ thoughts yourself.”

“Don’t forget it and go thinking you can play games with me.” Harry arched a brow, reversing their grips and pulling Jean-Claude behind him and out of the back of the house, the master vampire following along obligingly and taking in the dark hour of the night before the dawn, the crispy crunch of dried grass crackling beneath his bare feet. “My warning stands. If you think it’s changed because we’ll be bound together, remind me to tell you the story of the necromancer I spoke of earlier. And how I unbound myself from _him_ despite his successfully using my soul as an anchor for his own.”

Jean-Claude felt his eyes pop wide, grateful that he was a step back from Harry as he led him into what had to be a man-made stone dance, the rocks far too perfectly spaced - and obsidian besides - to have been the result of a retreating glacier or somesuch.

He shot a speculative glance at the back of Harry’s head.

“I think I’d like to hear that story, actually.” He said as Harry pulled him into the center of the stones to where a slab of carved obsidian with images representing the elements on each directional face rested. “I imagine it would be _quite enlightening_ in regards to your past.”

“Oh, you have _no_ idea.” Harry smiled, rolling his eyes playfully then tugged his hand free and hopped up and back onto the top of the altar. 

Jean-Claude’s strong hands automatically went to his hips at first to steady him and then just to rest.

Dark eyes gave him an inquiring look, not quite following the reasoning for the change in venue.

“You said that part of the marks is an exchange of power.” Harry explained, patting the obsidian under him fondly. “These circles are designed to channel power called for rituals and keep it from spilling outside their boundaries. This one in particular I chose the stone and sigils for grounding, protection, and purification. Any spillover from our exchange will be channeled by the stones, purified, and used to power the wards and protective enchantments on the property. Call me paranoid,” he shrugged, smiling slightly. “But I’d rather take the precaution than _not_ and end up setting you - or my house - _on fire._ ”

In response, Jean-Claude leaned forward boxing Harry in and moving his hands to rest on the cool black volcanic glass and then _pressed_ forward with his life essence and power - all that kept him living despite being undead.

Harry gasped, head tilting back as he felt the power _reaching_ into him, filling him up in ever crack and crevice it could find within him. Not one was hidden from him. Even ones that Harry hadn’t realized he carried, the result of shattering himself over and over and over again in the pursuit of breaking the bindings on him.

Now here he was, taking on another of his own accord.

It only lasted a heartbeat, then it ebbed away as Jean-Claude pulled back before he pulled Harry completely under.

“Merlin fuck.” Harry cussed, panting and staring at the - yep, he knew that expression, the bastard - _smug_ face of the beautiful bastard of a master vampire. Then he shot him a wicked look. And pressed _back_ , burrowing his magic into Jean-Claude before the vampire could use the first mark to pull the second from him.

It was Jean-Claude’s turn to gasp, pupils shooting wide to swallow the dark blue of his eyes and most of the whites with it.

Harry’s experience with bonds made the second mark take less than the heartbeat of the first, the connection between them doubled as the second mark snapped into place turning their bond from a thin strand of filament to an unbreakable wire of carbon steel.

Fire flashed in Jean-Claude’s endlessly dark gaze, an echo of the eerie green color of Harry’s own when he was working high magic.

“Your power…” Jean-Claude breathed out, _feeling_ with every cell in his body as his own increased exponentially, far more than even he’d anticipated. 

What kind of creatures _were_ Harry and Sirius’s people? And how had his own never heard of them? Between the intoxicating scent of their blood and now the sheer _oceans_ of power that they - and now Jean-Claude - could call on they would be the most highly sought consorts of vampires the world over.

What Jean-Claude could feel resting within Harry was greater than anything he’d ever felt.

Than Belle Morte at her most ruthless, than the Traveler, than any fae who had tangled with the Council.

Though that answered his question even as he asked it: they wouldn’t just be _sought_ they’d be _hunted_.

Harry’s sudden - from Jean-Claude’s perspective - decision to become his human servant and Sirius’s diligent work to hide the extent of his abilities were both at heart the same root desire: protection.

Sirius when alone was distinctly _vulnerable_ in ways that Jean-Claude is only now beginning to understand. He’d had no choice but to hide. Then Harry arrived. By both of their admissions far more powerful and far less subtle.

He had no need to hide but his power drew others to him.

You could’ve knocked him over with a feather when he found Aubrey treating him warmly and laughing with the other dancers.

Unless he lived in seclusion, there would be no _hiding_ for Harry.

But choosing to ally himself with a master vampire who was intelligent enough to know the gift he was being given in Harry, _that_ was a layer of protection that allowed him to live openly without fear of being hunted from one end of the world to the other by those wishing to bind him.

Jean-Claude chuckled, leaning his forehead down against Harry’s own.

“Oh you clever, beautiful, _petit monstre._ ” He looked deep into those surprised green eyes. “You give such _gifts_ with hidden stingers.”

“At least you’ll never be bored.”

“ _Non,_ never that.” Jean-Claude reached up, fingers caressing the petals of his own gift to Harry then grasped him lightly on the chin. Tilting Harry’s lovely face up towards his own, he leaned down and pressed their lips together with utter reverence that was quickly subsumed into the _ardeur_ as Harry felt it for himself.

There was no warning. Harry at a loss to accurately describe what Jean-Claude’s power out in full force felt like as Harry felt his low-level of arousal he always felt around the master vampire catch fire and roar into living flame threatening to burn him alive. Cock hard in his soft jeans, Harry’s legs came up as if of their own accord and wrapped around Jean-Claude’s lean hips as Jean-Claude’s clever tongue worked its way into and through Harry’s lips and guarding teeth. Searching and sweeping through Harry’s wet mouth like an erogenous heat-seeking missile, Harry groaned softly as his eyes fluttered closed almost against his will.

It was a feedback loop, rising higher and higher: the _ardeur_ feeding into Harry, Harry’s lust and desire and sheer _want_ feeding into Jean-Claude and the _ardeur_ , then repeating all over again as they ground into each other.

Jean-Claude pushed Harry back, his instincts roaring with possessive _want_ for the powerful, fiery creature, lowering him firmly back onto the cool slab of stone and keeping him hemmed in with his body but not physically trapped or pinned down.

For the first time Harry saw Jean-Claude’s fangs, the master vampire having long since mastered the art of smiling and even laughing without flashing them like a fledgling as Jean-Claude stared down at him and bared them in a show that had a visceral tingle of want-mingled-awe at having an apex predator crouching over him.

Perhaps that was the mistake others had _always_ made about Jean-Claude: they saw the beauty and forgot the fangs that he kept so carefully concealed.

Even Harry had done it to an extent before he’d had the master vampire’s power coursing through his veins and filling in his chips and cracks like gold gilding a shattered teacup and forging it back into a uniquely beautiful work of art.

Leaning down, power throbbing and running and pulsing endlessly between them, Jean-Claude delicately traced the bronzed skin pulled taut by Harry’s arched neck over his vein.

With the precision of the perfect predator, his fangs slipped through Harry’s skin like a scalpel through silk, the bite almost _elegant_ in its restraint.

Restraint that only lasted until the hot taste of magical blood - copper, white-hot heat that always signaled _magic_ , and something dark underneath: a bit bitter, a little sweet, but lush on his tongue that he’d never tasted in another - hit his tongue.

Growling lowly, the sound musical as always despite the rude nature of it, Jean-Claude bit down firmly, sending blood rushing down his throat and power with it as his hands turned to steel on Harry’s head and hip, and he _pulled._

Mouthful after mouthful he pulled until he felt the unknown-dark and copper start to be overtaken by a warning rise of white-hot heat and a final rush of the _ardeur_ as the scent of cum and satisfaction reached his nose.

It seemed Harry’s power would only allow him so much before rising to protect its host while on the other hand the combination of Harry’s power and Jean-Claude’s _ardeur_ mimicked the effect of his once-lover’s bite, Asher as one of the most powerful members of the Belle Morte line able to bring anyone to orgasm with a single kiss of his fangs.

His little monster never failed to fascinate at every turn.

Pulling back, Jean-Claude ran his tongue over the bite mark that would likely never fade given how deeply he’d bitten and the purpose of the wound, sealing it with his power and preventing anymore blood loss.

He felt a bit of himself rearrange as if making a place for his little sorcerer, watching as blood rushed to fill Harry’s cheeks despite the smaller male being down about a pint he would guess based on how replete he felt.

Satiated.

For once, even without actual sexual congress, he felt his hunger - both of them - were at rest Harry’s power and desire feeding the _ardeur_ despite only Harry reaching climax.

 _Jean-Claude_ however, was not satisfied as his cock throbbed in its entrapping leather cage of his trousers, a fact that had Harry blushing even harder when he moved and felt it for himself rubbing against his thigh.

Still, Jean-Claude was not a selfish brute nor uncaring and what he already had of Harry was more than enough for one night once it was complete.

No need to do something as _gauche_ as guilting or pressing him into further intimacies, even if Harry would allow such a thing to pass without fierce and swift retaliation or scorn.

Jean-Claude leaned back down and with a swift and clean slice of his tongue against his fang, stole Harry’s lips once more feeding him his blood - though far less than he’d taken - and sealing his place as Jean-Claude’s human servant.

Harry swallowed, though not without one of his adorable nose-wrinkles, then a moment later arched back in surprise, his head almost slamming into the stone slab underneath them if it wasn’t for Jean-Claude’s hand cushioning him with a sudden rush of vampiric there-then-here blink-and-you’ll-miss-it speed.

If it weren’t for the bond between them once more morphing and changing with a rush of power, Jean-Claude would have panicked as nothing he’d ever been told matched the near-seizure that shook Harry to the point of actual _sparks_ jumping off his skin - what little of it Jean-Claude could see in the concealing clothes he wore - and his eyes _burning_ bright neon green for an endless moment before the color settled back down to his normal emerald.

With a frustrated glance at where the first edges of dawn were threatening to peek over the horizon, Jean-Claude snatched his _petit monstre_ up into his arms and rushed him up his stairs and onto the bed in a room drenched in his scent.

He’d gone quiet and fallen into what felt like true sleep by the time Jean-Claude had the covers pulled back and identified which side of the bed Harry preferred before removing his clothes and running a cloth nabbed from the attached bath over his soft genitals. He mourned that the first time he saw Harry bare was under such circumstances. But time was not his friend and better to strip and clean him with brisk efficiency than leave him in a most untenable situation with underwear stuck to his skin from his spendings.

Removing the rose from behind one bronzed ear, Jean-Claude smiled a bit at the sight of the bowls of violets currently camped out on both of his nightstands and the vase of barely-there pink roses standing guard on his dresser.

So fierce and bold but so soft underneath.

Jean-Claude looked forward to peeling back many of those prickly layers.

He set the rose on the pillow next to Harry’s, darting back downstairs to scratch out a note to tuck underneath it on the pad he’d spotted in the den, then without further dawdling or ado was forced to leave the house and fly back to _Guilty Pleasures._

His _petit monstre_ would no doubt be _most displeased_ if all of the night’s negotiations and events were for naught, forcing him to return to his resting place for his daily death.

He hoped Harry would pardon him for the rudeness of his departure and the liberties he’d taken with his person.

Though he had to admit, there was a part of him that had sensed the utter control Harry kept on his power at all times and was tempted to discover what it would take to make him lose it - and what the results might be in the wake of his temper.

…

Harry was lost in a sea of magic, caught and tossed about on the waves and eddies of his own power as a monsoon raged overhead with him trapped betwixt and between.

He felt Jean-Claude protect him from braining himself on the altar, felt it as he held him close and carried him to his bed.

In an absent way - a trapped in his own body and nearly drowning in power way - he heard as Jean-Claude stripped, cleaned, and put him to bed with a speed and efficiency only managed by a vampire.

In that same absent way he understood _why:_ dawn was coming and Jean-Claude had no safe place to rest in Harry’s home. He _had_ to leave, he had no choice. What he _did_ have a choice in was the manner that he left Harry and he appreciated that he didn’t leave him with trousers stuck to his skin with semen gone dried and tacky or no note to explain matters when he was fully conscious.

Despite all Harry’s words, from a vampire’s perspective Jean-Claude _owned_ him now with the fourth mark in place and their bond stretching between them like a woven cable fashioned of solid titanium: flexible, but of many layers and such make that trying to cut or break it would be an exercise of sheer futility.

He wasn’t going to fill their first conversation after the bond was set biting his head off over cleaning him up and taking care of him when Harry wasn’t coherent.

They would _definitely_ need to establish some boundaries but for this once Harry would let Jean-Claude off the hook rather than get up in arms about a gesture that he did believe was well meant.

Now if the vampire did it _again_ without his permission, that would be another story.

Harry hadn’t fought as hard as he did for his personal agency to have Jean-Claude treat him like a doll or ignore his wishes, especially when it came to himself and his body autonomy.

Once Harry finished threading the weave of his bond with Jean-Claude through his core - not easy when his mental landscape had been throwing quite the hissy fit - the storm calmed and he found himself standing in his mindscape, the inner sanctum inside his layers of traps and mental shields where he sorted and stored his memories or, as was the case at the moment, accessed his magical core when he was working on undoing his bindings.

He studied the thick woven titanium cording of the bond with Jean-Claude, finding himself both impressed and anxious with it. It didn’t _bind_ him in anyway, it didn’t try and strangle his core or any part of him, but it was very obviously _there_ in a way he would never be able to explain to another person.

It also led away from his core to a new installment in his mindscape.

Where Harry used an amalgamation of Grimmauld Place and Gryffindor Tower as a template, complete with the rooms that will shift, stairs that turn into slides, and doors that will disappear - and the many, _many_ cursed traps waiting to pounce on the unwary intruder, he kept his memories either tucked away in the Black Library or in the portrait gallery depending on their contents and importance.

The bond however led him up from the ritual room of Grimmauld’s Basement to his mind’s representation of his home for five years: the boy's dormitory of the Tower.

There on the far wall where once was a hodgepodge of Chudley Cannons posters stood an archway where the bond went from a thick cord to an open conduit and _oh he recognized this._

Not the same thing as his one-time mental link with Voldemort at all, but almost identical in concept, he watched as the other side of the archway lit with sun illuminating a bright countryside of rolling hills and flowering fields.

Propping one shoulder on the wooden frame of the arch, Harry waited and sure enough moments later his patience was rewarded with the breathtaking sight of Jean-Claude walking towards him in the bright light of the sun and looking radiant while he was at it.

“Good thing memories don’t burn.” Harry commented as Jean-Claude approached, studying him where he stood in, he leaned forward and inspected the arch from the other side without leaving his own mindscape, the open air from the vampire’s perspective.

Jean-Claude merely hummed and lifted his head to peek over Harry’s shoulder into what was beyond him, seeing what he thought was a bedroom but one completely different than the one he’d left Harry in before taking his leave, all bedecked as it was in gaudy crimson and gold rather than the soothing tones of Harry's resting place.

“I knew a mental connection was almost guaranteed due to your power, _mon petit monstre,_ but this,” Jean-Claude waved his hand at the fields behind him and the archway he waited in, turning his face up to the sun for a long moment. “Is beyond even my imagination.”

“Hmm.” Harry hummed, enjoying the sight of Jean-Claude basking in the sun like a great cat, then ran his hand against the opposite side of the arch from where he was propped up.

As he did so, and at his will, a white door rippled into being.

Given Jean-Claude being _Jean-Claude_ , he made it a white framed French door with many clear panes, but one that would close if not lock nonetheless.

“A precaution.” Harry told him when Jean-Claude almost _pouted_ at the door. “There are many traps in my mind to prevent intruders. Come to the door and knock if you need to use the connection and I’ll open it but otherwise: _don’t._ I take the sanctity of my mind with the utmost seriousness, much like my personal agency, and if you disregard my warning I won’t be held responsible when your mind breaks from trying to wander where it wasn’t welcomed.”

“ _Naturellement_ ,” Jean-Claude inclined his head. It was an understandable request, especially as _he_ wasn’t going to be volunteering to allow Harry open access to his own memories and thoughts anywhen soon either. “How are you, otherwise?” He asked, still concerned despite Harry’s seemingly healthy mental presence. “You were insensate when I was forced by the dawn to take my leave.”

“Adjusting.” Harry twisted his neck and rolled his shoulders, as if shaking off a physical tightness in his mental form. “You’re quite the hidden powerhouse, that _ardeur_ of yours had to learn to play nice with my magic. Fortunately, I’m no novice when it comes to mental powers - and not just in fending them off. I’ll be fine, but thanks for taking care of me.”

“Of course, you are _mon petit monstre,”_ Jean-Claude’s smile was just a bit sly. “Taking care of you is my honor.”

“You know I know what that means, right?” Harry had to check, though not really debating the nickname. He did have his monstrous moments after all even without his ridiculous magic reserves being involved. He was certain that some if they learned of the business-like manner he was approaching his place with Jean-Claude and learning his motivations would find him quite cold, calculating, and even _monstrous_ for using Jean-Claude and his status as a master vampire as his own personal meat-shield against his own kind. “You’re not being slick.”

“ _Bien sur_.” Jean-Claude’s laugh was melodious, made even more so by how his eyes shone and sparkled in the fabricated sunlight of their mental bond. “I thought you might, as your _parrain_ certainly does, but if others _do not_ well…” Jean-Claude smirked. “Their mistake, no?”

Harry snorted, then turned his head as his wards chimed with warning of a visitor.

Jean-Claude cocked his head in curiosity at the sound that he could almost _feel_ despite being quite on the verge of fully sinking into his daily death.

“I have to go.” Harry curled two fingers in a come-here gesture, the door between their minds slowly closing as a result. “Sweet sleep, Jean-Claude.”

“Be safe, _mon petit sorcier.”_ Jean-Claude bid him sincerely. “Not all will be able to sense your new status but many will. Take care until I rise.”

“I’ll do my best.”

With that, Harry closed the door with a soft _snick_ , Jean-Claude and the mindscape beyond dissolving into nothing but a formless mass of color that was the bond’s representation away from the woven cable in and around his core.

“No promises, though.” Harry grinned deviously. “Best to start as I mean to go on.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Ancient Bonds**

**Chapter Nine: Accidental Marriage Acquisition**

It was a groggy Harry feeling like he’d gone a couple rounds with a mountain troll on top of losing a fight to a bottle of Ogden’s best firewhiskey that stumbled down the stairs of his house.

After shutting the mental door between himself and Jean-Claude, he’d forced himself awake - a side effect of lucid dreaming or working in his mindscape rather than actual sleeping - and managed to summon a pair of silk pajama bottoms Sirius had forced him to buy and struggle into them before nearly taking a header down the stairs instead of staggering down them.

He wasn’t surprised in the least.

For the last (he did some quick math after a bleary glance at the kitchen clock) six hours he’d been undergoing a massive mental and magical shift to accommodate the clusterfuck that apparently were the four marks involved in becoming a human servant.

He absolutely got now why the one account of it he’d found buried in an online forum - deep _deep_ in the web where bigots couldn’t find it - had spread the taking and giving of the marks apart by at least a day and in the case of the final two by almost a month.

His head felt like it wanted to crack open and let all the grey matter fall out after having to mentally shoehorn in his connection to Jean-Claude.

And don’t even get him started on the temper-tantrum his magic had thrown.

It was the one place where his strength outweighed Jean-Claude’s from what he could tell but Jean-Claude’s native magics as a centuries-old vampire had a _weight_ to it that made integrating it into his own core like trying to throw steel, blood, and fire into a blender and hoping for the best.

Ow.

Everything hurt.

He was in desperate need of pain and headache potions, another sixteen hours of sleep, and a shower, but he was going to get none of those at this exact moment because someone was knocking - however politely - on his front door.

If it was Marv, the flower delivery guy, he was going to kick Jean-Claude’s _ass_ when he saw him - likely that evening after he rose for the night.

Harry opened the door and swiftly bit down on his desire to curse the air blue.

On second thought, he’d have preferred the delivery man. Although he saw the newest round of vase-and-roses sitting innocently on the porch in all their cut-crystal and deep purple beauty, the two dozen long-stems an exact match for the cut-stem still resting on his bed. Marv at least hadn’t woken him up, the gentle passing of his neutral intentions not enough to rattle him out of his deep trance.

Sergeant Storr, on the other hand, apparently had no such compunctions given that it was just gone ten in the morning and he was standing on his doorstep in all his crisp-suited and towering glory.

He also, if the narrow-eyed glance at Jean-Claude’s bite mark that Harry could still _feel_ was any sign, not a fan of the fang.

Like that was a shocker.

The unlucky bastard of a cop who got saddled investigating preternatural crime _had a problem with the preternatural_ or at least some of them.

Yeah.

Color him surprised.

When all Harry had seen of dark magic were assholes trying to kill him, _he’d_ had a problem too.

It wasn’t until he learned the difference between the tool and the person that he’d gotten over most of his biases, much like how many people in his new home had widespread prejudice against vampires or shifters likely without ever knowingly meeting one.

If all Storr ever saw of the preternatural was crime, of _fucking course_ he was going to have deep set issues surrounding it.

Duh.

“Something tells me you’re not here for a friendly chat.” Harry sighed, waving away whatever opening spiel Storr had on the tip of his tongue, then stepped back and waved him inside before stooping and picking up his newest addition to his flower collection. At this rate he’d be overrun in no time.

That didn’t mean he wanted Jean-Claude to _stop_ by any means.

Just that he was going to have to look up what potions took ingredients like rose petals and violets if he didn’t want to have to push his way through a fragrant forest to go from one room to the next.

Setting the roses down on the bench he’d put in his foyer for taking shoes on and off, he glanced at Storr who’d had to almost bend over to clear the doorframe.

“I’m going to go put a shirt on.” He told the cop, pointing firmly to the kitchen. “I’m giving you permission to enter my kitchen and foyer, _only,_ and I’ll know if you go snooping and will set Sirius on your arse with extreme prejudice.”

With how relentless his godfather could be when holding a grudge, he figured it was a relatively terrifying but still tame threat.

From the bearpaw hands that immediately came up to his shoulders in the open “surrender” motion that was common just about everywhere, it was clear that Storr had a healthy respect for the pranking and grudge-carrying prowess of the scion of House Black.

Harry jogged up the stairs as he flicked an invisible spell over his shoulder to set the coffee pot to brewing. It wasn’t his favorite beverage by a long stretch but he had a feeling he was going to need the caffeine if having Storr show up unannounced on his doorstep was any sign.

A shirt flew out of his closet to meet him as he strode through his bedroom door, shrugging on the slouchy cream colored sweater that his magic had chosen as another spell had the potions he needed summoned from the kit he kept in his bedside table hovering in front of him. Harry grimaced. He hated waking up first thing to potions, a remnant of too many visits to the hospital wing when he was at Hogwarts.

He slugged back the headache potion and a muscle relaxant that didn’t have interaction issues, deciding on the spur of the moment to wait and see if he actually needed a pain potion later.

Hopefully with his headache and muscle aches handled, he could pass on the potion that like Skelegro he was dead certain was made extra disgusting to discourage dependency or foolishness because of what they were able to cure.

Dreamless sleep _should_ be like that but from what he could tell the creator had thought that the risk of losing your mind or falling into an incurable coma from overuse would be enough of a preventative against abuse.

Hah.

Like that would be enough to stop some people, idiots who thought it wouldn’t be them that felt the backlash abounded in his experience.

Another spell banished the empty vials down to his in-progress potions lab in the outbuilding, while a hygiene charm took care of the lingering _scents_ and the foul taste in his mouth that felt like something had _died_ in there while he’d been resting and working on assimilating the bond to Jean-Claude.

Eyeing himself with considerable more clarity than when he’d woken up, Harry nodded at his reflection on the back of his walk-in-closet door.

A stray thought had him skimming the note Jean-Claude had left but didn’t tell him anything new other than that the master vampire had penmanship Cassiopeia would’ve _killed_ for Harry to have gained under her exacting tutelage.

Another summoning charm had his cell phone smacking into his hand from where it’d been left in his jean pocket the night before when Jean-Claude tucked him into bed.

Nothing new there either except for a voicemail from Rafael wishing him a good day and letting him know that he’d sent two of his wererats to relieve Luthor at the hospital and take turns playing guard.

Harry texted him back as he made his way back downstairs and to discover whatever new malfeasance had Storr knocking on his door.

The cell phone tucked into his pocket and roses recovered from the foyer bench, Harry eyed Storr where he’d decided to lean against Harry’s counter in lieu of taking a seat before he’d been invited.

Harry set the roses down next to the sink rather than take a detour into the den to put them on his desk, then nodded his head towards the kitchen table in wordless offer.

He watched the big man settle himself with contemplation, appreciating the tactic the cop was taking in allowing the silence to stretch out, then decided to break it:

“If I use magic to make breakfast while we talk are you going to get jumpy on me?” He asked point-blank.

“It’s your home.” Storr said mildly.

Harry arched a brow then pushed off the counter as the tools and utensils and appliances came to life behind him.

He watched Storr with amusement playing around his mouth and sparkling in his eyes as the muggle man couldn’t help _but_ to watch the expertly orchestrated ballet of food and preparation play out behind Harry as he sat. Oranges from the basket on the counter being sliced with firm _thwacks_ of his cutlery before spinning themselves down onto the juicer. Berries being chopped and diced and slightly sugared. Brioche wobbling out of the bread box and onto its turn on the chopping block becoming a dozen even inch-thick slices before dipping themselves in a mixture of milk, egg, vanilla and cinnamon that whisked itself in a prep bowl before lining up like perfect soldiers on the stove’s cast iron griddle to fry. Plates and utensils and bowls danced through the air and set themselves just _so_ before Harry and Storr, the coffee carafe following with the sugar and cream canisters following from the counter top and refrigerator.

“Sure about that?” Harry asked, sipping at his coffee that had precisely made itself at his spoken order for the amount of cream and sugar as Storr stared down at the coffee that poured itself perfectly into his cup before shaking his head with a slight grin and told the canisters that he took his black.

The play continued on as Storr wrapped his hand around a thick ceramic mug of excellent coffee, one of the big mugs Harry’d actually purchased for soup or porridge but suited those bearpaws Storr called hands without being dwarfed or looking ridiculous.

Dolph took a large sip of the coffee, raising his brows at the rich taste, then set the mug back down but didn’t let go of it.

“Positive.” Dolph told him, focusing on Harry for all that every couple of seconds his eyes would flick to the breakfast making itself and then back.

“What brings you by, Sergeant?” Harry asked, sipping at his own cup and not enjoying it nearly as much as Storr. He needed to recharge after all he’d put his core through recently and magic burned calories like nobody’s business. Overloading his coffee with sugar and cream was just one part of that along with the fruit-and-carb heavy breakfast.

The hearty meals Hogwarts served actually started making sense to him after the goblins healed him - including his stomach and digestive tract - from the damage done to him for years and years under the Dursleys’ not-so-loving care.

There wasn’t a witch or wizard he’d never met who actively or consistently used magic and _didn’t_ eat like a muggle linebacker.

“Sirius is still in the hospital, the doctors are talking at least another few days before he’s stable enough to receive care at home.”

Which also gave Harry time to plan, since bloodlust burning at him or not, he wasn’t going to make a move of any kind against Nikolaos or the necromancer piloting the ghouls until Sirius was tucked safe and sound behind wards that would keep a repeat of his attack - or one worse - from occurring.

“So I’ve been told.” Dolph nodded, taking another drink of his coffee. “I’m here about the lead you gave us on the attack.” He explained. “Zerbrowski and I have spent the last day and a half sitting through back-to-back meetings with every animator or necromancer employed at Animators Inc.” The largest animating company in the tri-state area and as a result also Blake’s employer. “Struck, well not gold but another lead, with one of them who used to be deep into vaudun. It’s his professional opinion and others including Blake agree, that raising and piloting ghouls like you described from the attack would take massive mojo of the vaudun type.”

Harry thought about that a moment as full platters set themselves down gently between him and Storr: french toast, eggs, bacon, a big bowl of mixed berries, a petite one of powdered sugar, a fresh stick of butter on a plate, and last the carafe of fresh squeezed orange juice.

“Help yourself.” Harry gestured to the platters as his plate hovered over each one as it was piled high with the various offerings, the juice filling his empty glass almost to the brim. “I need a moment to think.”

“Not an expert in vaudun?” Dolph asked with honest curiosity. Sirius’s kid was a puzzle. An impression that he wasn’t alone in sharing if Zerbrowski’s remarks and Blake’s rants were any sign. Zerbrowski however seemed to think that the kid was trustworthy while he’d done nothing but put Blake’s back up.

Push come to shove, he trusted Zerbrowski’s gut more than Blake’s hair-trigger temper.

He tended to be right more often than not, just a tiny little bit of enhanced intuition left over from having a fae way back in the family tree if Dolph had to guess, like probably half the people in the states.

Nothing dangerous, just a bit _extra_ in ways that complete normies like Dolph could never be.

Dolph didn’t hold back once the kid had his plate and was digging in, though he dished up himself, the kid apparently done with showing off for the moment or trying to get a rise out of him for his instinctual revulsion at the sight of him wearing a vamp bite.

The food was as good as the coffee, the bacon crisp but not burnt, fruit fresh, french toast not soggy from being over soaked in the egg mixture.

Kid knew how to cook, magic doing the heavy lifting or not.

Harry finished first, packing it away at speed but with excellent table manners regardless, then sat back as his empty plate whirled away to rinse itself in the kitchen sink.

Glass of juice in hand - his third serving - he sat back against the ladder back kitchen chair in white that matched the room’s trim and held his free hand out and to the side.

Dolph opened his mouth to ask, only to let his teeth click shut when a book floated down the stairs and slapped softly into his hand.

“I’m not an expert in vaudun.” Harry told him honestly. “Or in necromancy for that matter so if your experts say that it’s one and not the other, I won’t gainsay them.” He set the book softly down on the table in front of them, Dolph just barely able to make out the title: _Secrets of the Darkest Art._

Even that much sent a tingle crawling down his spine, which morphed into all-out dread as he felt the fine hairs on his arms and the back of his neck lift when the kid _opened_ the damn thing.

With a familiar nonchalance that Dolph couldn’t understand, Harry flipped to the table of contents and ran one finger down the listing before turning to a section near the back of the large tome devoted to what to his people were the darkest arts: necromancy and vaudun because of how they twisted and corrupted the magical core and/or soul, sometimes even if every possible precaution was taken.

“Bingo.” Harry said after skimming the section on raising ghouls. “Ghouls rise from corrupted graveyards and _can_ be piloted but usually aren’t.” He closed the book and sent it away before Storr could get the bright idea to ask to look at it and ended up cursed for it. “The question then becomes: how do you corrupt a graveyard _and_ take control of a pack of ghouls at the same time?”

“Any ideas?” Dolph asked since unlike his dad or Blake, his impression of Harry was that he’d give him information if he came knocking but the kid didn’t actually have any desire to stick his nose into Dolph’s investigations.

The caveat being that Dolph _had_ to hunt the kid down and ask since despite him trying to get more information out of his dad, Black had been frustratingly close-lipped about his kid - or whatever their actual relationship was as accounts varied - and outright unhelpful in contacting him.

That Zerbrowski had been of a mind to sweet-talk the kid’s contact information out of the hospital receptionist had been the only reason Dolph had managed to run him down so quickly without having to go through official channels.

“Mmm.” Harry tilted his chair back on its rear legs, one foot hooked under a table leg and keeping him steady. He waggled a hand in midair. “Tracking the ghouls is my best idea, since if they’re killing for whatever purpose this vaudun practitioner has set them to they must report back to them somehow.” He shrugged, out of smart ideas that wouldn’t lead RPIT smack to his main suspect and keep him from making them bleed and burn. “Be careful though: they’re fast and strong. I don’t know if a bullet will bother them but fire will have them running for the hills.”

“Alright.” Dolph nodded, rising to his feet with far more grace than a man his size should rightfully be capable of. “Thanks for the meal and the information, Mr. Potter.”

“Anytime, Sergeant Storr.” He toasted the cop with his glass before dropping the chair back down and getting up to walk him to the door. “Here,” he grabbed a pad of note paper that sat beside the phone in the kitchen and jotted off his house number. “I have a machine hooked up so if you can’t catch me, I’ll get back to you. Otherwise I won’t be far from my dad for long while he’s recovering.”

“Fair enough,” Dolph gave him a little salute with the note and then walked out to his truck in the driveway. “Have a good one.”

“You too, Sergeant.” Harry waved him off, glad to have the muggle out from under foot.

Double so when his phone buzzed with a text from Rafael warning him of the Rom’s imminent arrival for their planned lunch date.

Oh.

Yeah.

Wait. He froze as he set his magic to cleaning up after breakfast, bolting down the rest of the mixed berries and juice. Shit. Rafael. Jean-Claude.

That was _not_ likely going to be nearly as pleasant of a conversation.

Fuck.

He groaned, burying his head in his arms as how Rafael was likely to react to Harry’s decision - signed, sealed and delivered - without even mentioning it to the Rom as a possibility.

Fucking actual _relationships._

Shit fuck damnit Merlin’s saggy ballsack.

 _Other people_ being impacted by his decisions. That was a thing he had to consider now. And he’d blown it in especially spectacular fashion in less than two weeks. Gotten so caught up that he’d defaulted back to old habits.

He let out a truly pathetic little whimper.

Fuck.

…

Harry put the vase of purple roses in the bay window before running upstairs to clean up before Rafael arrived.

A quick shower had him clean, then he filled the deep soaker Jacuzzi tub that almost put the Prefect’s bath to shame with hot water and a muggle bubble bath that was supposed to be _calming for body and mind._

With his thoughts racing he wasn’t sure how calming for the mind it was even with using Occlumency to get his nerves under control. He’d looked and leapt but he he’d still missed a rather towering old growth tree despite seeing the rest of the forest.

It worked to soothe away the lingering aches and pains twinging at his body despite the muscle relaxing potion so there was that.

It also gave him the time he needed to wrangle his anxiety and low-level terror he’d been struggling with since finding out about, well, _vampires_ and devouring everything he could possibly learn about them and realized what a threat they were to him, his personal freedom and agency, Sirius, and Sirius’s personal freedom and agency.

He better than _anyone_ knew that when he felt cornered, he would lash out and make decisions that often left him scrambling in various ways later on once the smoke of burned bridges and his ferocious temper had cleared.

Harry didn’t _regret_ his arrangement with Jean-Claude, even hours later and after turning it over and over in his mind, he was still convinced that a master vampire with significant power of his own - _and fuck, Jean-Claude’s ardeur was no joke_ \- who Sirius felt comfortable enough around to call _friend_ was likely a better option than 99.9% of the vampires who everyone including Harry were convinced would be drawn to his power.

It was whether Harry wanted to risk being forced in one way or another by that 99.9% to hold out for the 0.1% shot at someone even better suited for him that he had to think about.

And every time he came back to the same answer: with Sirius at risk as well, the answer was always no.

No: he didn’t want to leave a trail of burned-out vampires behind him.

No: he didn’t want to risk one of them figuring out how to either overpower or manipulate him.

No: he didn’t want to sacrifice what he had in front of him for the distant possibility of a nebulous _something better_ in the far-off future.

He’d gone a bit wild, drunk on power and freedom in this new world.

Now he was sober and awake and had to deal with the fallout.

Step one: hope like _hell_ that his boyfriend - Rafael showed up in a panic at the hospital because he thought Harry was hurt, he was his boyfriend - forgave him for making a unilateral decision that had the potential to affect _both_ of their lives.

Everything else?

Sirius was safe under the watchful eyes of the hospital staff and the Rodere.

Jean-Claude was in the midst of his daily death.

Everything else could _fucking wait._

…

Dressed with an eyes towards what Rafael had seemed to appreciate on him before (soft, worn-in fabrics in white that made his bronze skin pop) and with his dirty laundry in the wash and fresh linen on his bed to hopefully clear out any lingering scents of the nitty-gritty details of what had happened between him and Jean-Claude, Harry paced a bit in the kitchen.

Okay, he was fussing.

He had tried to force himself to work on his current move-in project of getting the potions lab organized and outfitted, but it had only taken him flubbing the exhaust charms once to near-disastrous results to have him moving back into the house and pacing around the downstairs.

As soon as the wards pinged in recognition of Rafael’s truck, the gate opening easily, Harry was out the front door and nearly vibrating in place as he waited at the top of the porch stairs, his bare toes curling over the edge of the top step.

His white silk t-shirt was nearly see-through against his skin, his worn-white 501 jeans softly clinging to every muscle in his lower half.

And no sooner had Rafael exited his truck cab and took a breath than his dark eyes narrowed, focusing in on Harry’s new neck adornment with laser-like accuracy.

He shut the door behind him carefully, walking over to his boyfriend with even steps.

Gently, he cupped Harry’s chin and tilted his head and jaw to force his head to flex and show off the bite mark that was already beginning to heal.

It was deep, given the coloration and that it was more than a pair of fang marks but a full half-moon.

The sort of mark that would’ve hurt like _hell_ if the vampire wasn’t rolling or manipulating the donor in some fashion.

“Are you okay?” Rafael had to ask, ratcheting down on his control to keep himself from hissing at the thought that a vampire, _any_ vampire, had hurt his Harry.

“I’m fine.” Harry blew out a shaky breath and reaching up to pry Rafael’s hold off of his chin and twine their fingers together. “But I _really_ hope you were serious when you talked about how weres are about sharing, otherwise I kinda, sorta, royally screwed myself out of a better boyfriend than I ever would’ve thought to ask for.” He blinked, thinking about how short of a time period had actually passed then added: “So far, anyway.”

He’d believed Sirius when his godfather talked to him about vampire and lycanthrope sex and relationships 101 but he’d still double-checked with Rafael, who’d confirmed everything Sirius had told him though added that _mates_ were considered sacrosanct and “safe” from power games involving sex and sharing.

Which didn’t mean that mates didn’t still have sex or share themselves with other people if they wanted to do so, just that there wasn’t an _expectation_ that it was on the bargaining table.

Harry _still_ had a hard time believing it at times but Sirius hadn’t been overselling how...liberal and free-love it all was.

Most of it was down to just how _flipping oversexed_ most of them were: both weres and vampires but there was also a strong dynamic of sexual dynamics and power games involved as well that tended to spin his puritanical wizarding-world and prudish-muggle-world raised brain into circles.

“Well,” Rafael struggled with his alpha rat’s desire to dominate and put his _own_ mark on Harry. 

He _had_ to keep that under control. Roaring his possessiveness and beating his chest would do approximately nothing to reassure his troubled and anxious little badass. Human. He reminded himself. Magical powerhouse or not, Harry was still very _human_ when it came to sex and relationships. He hadn’t gotten used to the way the preternatural world was about it.

In time, Harry would - hopefully - adapt and accept that as long as both of their needs were being met, him having another lover or ten: vampire, witch, were, human, _whatever;_ wasn’t a deal-breaker.

Lying, trying to hide it, treating the other party or Rafael like a dirty secret, _those_ were issues that would cause problems.

Messing around with just about the prettiest damn male Rafael had ever met in _any_ species?

Not even close to a problem for Rafael, even if he wished that his little lover had picked someone _safer._

Though he supposed if Harry worried about that kind of shit, he wouldn’t have agreed to date Rafael either, so it wouldn’t exactly be fair to bitch about it now.

Hell, with as fierce as Harry could be when his blood was up, Rafael was willing to bet that in time he’d even come to _enjoy_ when he carried the scent of one lover and Rafael pinned him to the nearest flat surface to scent him and mark him as his own again.

They weren’t _quite_ there yet, but hope springs eternal after that kiss Harry _took_ at the end of their first date that he wasn’t the lay back and think of England type but gave as good as he got.

“At least he’s pretty.”

Harry just about choked. Of all the responses he considered that Rafael might come out with, _that_ hadn’t even come close to any of them.

“You can, ah, tell?”

Rafael merely arched a dark brow and tapped one long finger against his nose.

“Jean-Claude has a pretty distinctive scent.” Rafael explained, then ran a finger down the healing bite mark. “And of the vampires in the city, he’s about the only one I can think of that has the skill to bite you that deep and not make it so painful you’d never want to repeat it.” He smirked. “You wouldn’t be _nearly_ so nervous if it was against your will, at least I hope I haven’t come across as the special kind of asshole who goes in for victim blaming,” he frowned, then smiled when Harry rushed to shake his head. “But you don’t smell like sex, just blood, so if I had to guess I’d say the frenchy is going to make a play soon.”

Rafael twirled his finger in a little ta-da motion.

Harry snorted softly, tugging Rafael into the house behind him. “ _I’m_ going to make a play soon, Jean-Claude is giving me the authority to back it up and not end up on the Council hit list.”

 _That_ had Rafael raising his brows and eyeing Harry speculatively.

“ _You_ agreed to be a human servant?” He asked incredulously, barely registering it as Harry didn’t lead them into the living room or kitchen as he expected but right up the stairs and into his bedroom.

Well now.

This had promise.

“I’m not unreasonable, Rafael.” Harry sighed, letting loose of the Rom’s hand and running his fingers through his hair as he started pacing around his - well shit his bedroom. He hadn’t even noticed where he’d been leading the handsome Rom. “Paranoid, touchy, extremely defensive regarding my personal agency, but not unreasonable or stupid. Jean-Claude and I came to an agreement that suits us both.” For now. “And then he gave me the marks.”

“No way to avoid politics when you’re like catnip rolled in chocolate to most of us, huh?” Rafael snatched him up on his next round of pacing, holding him tight and close for long moments, Harry all-but-melting into his embrace and snuggling his head into the curve of his shoulder and arm.

Harry shook his head. “And when my temper gets the better of me. I don’t have _many_ triggers anymore but the ones that are still there…” He let out a little whistle. “They set me off like a nuclear launch code.”

“Our relationship is our own, Harry.” Rafael needed it said. “Jean-Claude doesn’t get a say in it unless _both_ of us agree to bring him in. Same goes: I won’t interfere with your place as his lover and human servant. Vampire issues are vampire issues; Rodere issues are rodere issues…”

“Magical issues are magical issues.” Harry tossed in, wanting that bit made clear as well. He liked the addition to the hard no’s both he and Jean-Claude had hashed out the night before, which he proceeded to explain the details of to Rafael.

They were simple in his mind but reasonable: no enemies, no tainted magic users (past or present), no one they knew to be problems for one of the others. Asking, if he wasn’t sure. Asking again before sleeping with or giving blood to another vampire.

Also implied but not stated - which he’d have to remember to fix - was open communication. Harry didn’t really care if Jean-Claude was banging half his club goers every night - well, in theory - but if the vampire let him walk into an ambush of his former lovers trying to start cat fights they were going to have _problems._ He didn’t foresee that as an issue with Rafael, merely filing it under being aware to prevent trouble or drama.

“And something about the Pard being a problem that he didn’t want to get into that moment.” He finished up with the original framework of what - he thought he had the nomenclature figured out - was a polyamory agreement.

Rafael grimaced over Harry’s head. He definitely couldn’t blame Jean-Claude for that one. The Pard was a fucked up mess. As long as Gabriel was still alive, he didn’t see that changing anytime soon but the hands-off policy the vampires had enforced regarding getting involved in other groups’ affairs had effectively tied Rafael’s hands however distasteful or outright _evil_ he found the things Gabriel put the leopards through.

“I would ask the same of my rats as you’ve agreed with Jean-Claude and the vampires.” Rafael said. “For the same reason: our possessiveness. Mixing our lover with our underlings creates a possible situation where we might lash out at them for touching what’s _ours._ ” He found Harry’s mulish expression far more adorable than seemed appropriate for the Rom of the Rodere and a wizard who could kill him with a thought. “You are your own and no one worth your time will ever deny it, but our instincts are possessive and protective about what’s ours whether you’re dealing with a were, shifter, or vampire. That’s just the way we’re built.”

Harry sighed extravagantly, sending a cheeky look up at his Rom from under dark lashes.

“I suppose you lot _have_ to have some problematic traits.” Harry wrinkled his nose when Rafael scoffed. “Keep you from having heads too big to fit through the doors and ruining your lovers for mere mortals.”

“Oh _really…”_ Rafael drawled playfully, then _pounced._

…

Harry didn’t know the exact moment that Rafael’s switch flipped from playful - chasing him around the room, tossing him on the bed, holding him down and running his fingernails along his sides and underarms in an attempt to tickle him (hah! He went to school with the Weasley twins and had a Marauder for a godfather, he’d have to do better than _that!_ ) - to lustful but he felt it wash over the Rom nonetheless.

One moment he was teasing Rafael over not managing to find a ticklish spot.

The next he was being dazzled by one of the Rom’s blindingly white grins before being kissed within an inch of his life.

Harry smiled under Rafael’s lips and tongue, linking their hands together and intertwining their fingers then kissed his lover back, nipping lightly at Rafael’s lush lower lip.

Just a threat of pain, no more than a tease.

He didn’t know how his magic would react to lycanthropy in this world as his own only had a very different curse version limited to werewolves but finding out because of an accident while he was with Rafael was _not_ how he wanted to test it.

Tongue and teeth and lips didn’t pacify either of them long as their heated blood from playing around transitioned in a kiss of white teeth against Harry’s throat to pure want.

Harry let loose of Rafael’s hands, burying his own in ebony curls and arching up with a wordless moan as he went from interested to _rock hard_ in a split second, Rafael’s strong workman’s hands gripping the edge of Harry’s shirt before he tore his mouth away from nipping kisses on Harry’s neck to stare down at him in clear question.

Quirking a half-smile and arching in taunting supplication, Harry let go of his hair and lifted his arms over his head, relaxing even as the whisper of the soft silk teased skin gone unbearably sensitive from Rafael’s previous teasing.

His shirt disappeared over the edge of the bed, Rafael’s following an instant later Rafael pulled it off, Harry’s eager hands already running over every inch of solid, sculpted muscle that was bared before his avaricious gaze. Rafael’s chuckle was heated and more than a little smug before devolving into a hearty groan as Harry leveraged himself up and followed the path of his hands over his skin with his mouth, tracing the valleys between his cobblestone abs one moment and giving a kissing bite of white teeth to his nipples the next which had Rafael returning the favor and savoring the almost-squeak that Harry made before pushing him over onto his back. Harry straddled his lean hips, leaning forward and bracing his forearms on either side of Rafael’s head as he stole his breath with a deep, tongue twining kiss.

His hands didn’t stay idle for long, reaching down between them and brushing once in a questioning test over Rafael’s belt buckle, the backs of his knuckles just _grazing_ the soft skin and hair of Rafael’s treasure trail.

The groan and thrust of Rafael’s hips that won him had him smiling into their kiss again as his clever fingers made quick work of first Rafael’s belt and the fastening of his jeans before handling his own.

Rafael quickly got the memo, another thrust of his hips and an athletic twist of his chest and core putting both of them on their sides before he had to sit up to deal with his boots.

And deal with them he did, shucking them likely faster than ever before in his damn _life_ with the sight of Harry in all his tattooed, scarred, bronzed and lithely muscled glory stretching out on his silk-covered bed, shameless and bare in the bright afternoon light.

It caressed him ardently as he planted his feet on the silk coverlet, letting his knees fall to the sides and reveal that when it came to being naked there was absolutely _nothing_ he had to be ashamed of - and that his tattoos covered more than just his upper body as the sight of black ink on his inner thigh just below the crease showed off.

Rafael pitied Jean-Claude in that moment as the sun made love to Harry just as much as he did as the vampire would _never_ get to feast his eyes on such a scene.

And then all thought beyond arousal was cast from his mind as Harry smirked and snapped his fingers, conjuring lube and a condom as he eyed up Rafael’s own form with blatant appreciation.

Harry couldn’t help it. There was a _lot_ to appreciate and he wasn’t talking about just Rafael’s muscles. In that moment he couldn’t help but send up a prayer of thanks for all his past partners because getting a look at what Rafael had to offer - despite having felt it against him in before, that didn’t really compare - he had an honest-to-Merlin moment where he doubted if he was a virgin whether he’d be able to handle _that much_ cock without prior experience.

He wanted his hands on it, his mouth watered in sheer _want_ to taste him, even as the thought of it - all what had to be a thick nine inches or so as he wrapped his hand around it and found that while it wasn’t too much to hold (Rafael’s groan as he stroked his cock in one long appreciative caress was cock-hardening at its finest and he vowed then and there to make the Rom sound like that as often as possible.) it was almost too long to take without a _lot_ of prep.

Harry debated with himself a moment, his desire to see what _all_ kinds of sounds he could pull out of Rafael warring against his sheer _need_ to feel that hard, hot cock inside of him, but need as always won out against mere want.

Wrapping one arm around Rafael’s neck and pulling him down into another kiss, he let up a moment later as he picked up the lube from the pillow next to him - the same one that earlier that day had been home to a purple rose and a note - and popping the top from the glass vial took one of Rafael’s hands in his and coated it in the magical variation of slick.

The wizarding world might be behind the times when it came to _other_ kinds of care products but when it came to sex they’d had that shit figured out for _centuries._

“Are you sure?” Rafael asked, rubbing the lube between his thumb and fingers. It was a legitimate question. Harry wouldn’t have been the first lover to get a first-hand look at what Rafael brought on offer and balk at the idea of taking it. He wasn’t a small male in _any_ fashion. Though if Harry’s wide, greedy eyes when he’d gotten a look and how he’d gone right for it with his hands were any sign, he wasn’t dealing with that problem this time. “I don’t have a problem bottoming,” though Harry certainly wasn’t _little_ where it counted. “Or doing other things.”

Harry just rolled his eyes at the currently unneeded chivalry.

“I’m sure, Rafael.” He told him, reaching out with a lube-slicked hand and going right back to finding out the full range of pants, groans, and moans the big-bad-rat-king was capable of making. “ _Fuck me, Rafa.”_ He breathed into one darkly tanned ear, letting out a gasping moan of his own as the Rom got with the program and grabbed one of Harry’s tightly muscled but plump ass cheeks and opened him up.

One finger quickly became two as Harry’s noises and clever hands kept spurring Rafael’s arousal higher and higher.

He was tight, and firm, and _hot_ around Rafael’s fingers as he twisted and loosened Harry’s rear passage. Then they _curled_ just right, Harry’s head slamming back onto the pillow with a shout of surprise as Rafael proved he wasn’t the only one who knew what he was doing in that bed.

Rafael gave a dark little chuckle, grabbing Harry’s wrists one after the other as his fingers kept working Harry’s tight little hole, pressing them firmly to the pillow over Harry’s head before his hands finished things prematurely.

“There we go,” Rafael pressed a hot kiss to the corner of Harry’s slack mouth, emerald eyes almost rolling back in his head as his wrist pumped and fingers jabbed and pressed and worked his prostate. “Not nearly so sassy with a stuffed ass, are you?”

In retaliation Harry leaned up and took Rafael’s mouth in a filthy kiss, nipping once more just _barely_ not drawing blood in wordless threat that was joined a moment later with an _actual_ threat: _“Fuck me, Rafa.”_ His words were almost a growl, eyes flashing darkly even as Rafael removed his hands and moved to kneel between Harry’s legs. _“Before I roll you over and fuck myself with you.”_

Rafael thought that Harry needed to learn the definition of _threat_ because despite the tone that promised violence, that didn’t sound like anything but one hell of a good time.

Using one hand to roll on a condom then guide his throbbing cock, Rafael pressed slowly but firmly into Harry’s heated, well-slicked ass.

Harry’s hands came up off the pillow in an instant, nails biting into the skin of Rafael’s muscled shoulders and legs locking around Rafael’s hips as he slid home in one long, endless thrust, Harry almost _howling_ at the bite of pleasured-pain.

Rafael locked one hand on Harry’s hip and then there was _nothing_ slow or patient about what came next.

Pulling back in a quick drag, angling himself _just right_ , Rafael slammed home roughly. And again. And again. Hammering at Harry’s pleasure gland, burying his face into the curve of bronzed neck and skin and clenching his teeth on the urge to _bite._

 _Mine mine mine._ His cock dragged and pulsed as Harry clenched around him, neck tensed and arched in an unknowing tease to Rafael’s inner animal. _Mine!_

“Mine!” Rafael shouted, unable to hold it any longer as Harry wordlessly shouted, at a particularly well-aimed jab of Rafael’s cockhead against his prostate combined with the drag of his abs against the tip of Harry’s cock sending him topping right over the edge and sending him spiraling as his cum painted white over both of their lower stomachs.

For a moment he felt a wave of heat from inside him but dismissed it as Rafael sent him spiraling up to the stars, white sparks dazzling him behind his closed eyelids.

The Rom’s own climax had him shuddering in dazed pleasure as he bit down on the pillow edge next to Harry’s neck, condom rapidly filling as Harry’s limbs grew slack around him and let loose their strong hold, falling limply to the bed as Rafael lifted his head when he started to regain his senses and found himself staring down into fuck-drunk dilated green eyes.

A smile that was part smug but all satisfaction crossed his lips then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to softly-parted lips.

One followed another until he felt Harry start to respond and regain awareness, then he lifted up, balancing his weight on his elbows to keep from squashing his smaller lover into the mattress under them.

“Hey,” Rafael smiled softly as Harry lifted one hand and played with his curls.

“Hey,” Harry echoed with a little laugh that had Rafael giving a laughing groan of his own as it had Harry’s muscles spasming and clenching against the Rom’s still half-hard cock inside of him. He arched a surprised brow as the wererat threatened to harden while still inside him. “Hmm, that’s interesting.”

“Alpha shifter stamina.” Rafael’s smile this time was _definitely_ smug - and rightfully so - even as he reached down and held onto the top of the condom as he pulled out. Some things were just a _no,_ even for weres, and expecting a condom to last through more than one round safely was one of them. “A thing of beauty or frustration,” he explained as he sat up, removing and tying off the condom before padding over to the bathroom to toss it. “Depending on the situation.”

Well now, color Harry firmly on the intrigued side of that issue, the wizard rising and following Rafael into the bathroom and wrapping himself around the wererat’s back as he stood naked and bold as can be as he got a drink from the sink.

Lifting up onto his toes, Harry whispered a dirty suggestion of just how he’d like to test that stamina into one ear, Rafael sending him a look back over his shoulder.

Now Harry wasn’t the only one intrigued.

He just had one question: “ _Rafa?”_

Harry shrugged, lowering himself off of his toes as Rafael turned in his arms to face him without forcing him to let go.

He liked that about the weres he’s met so far.

All of them were so tactile.

“Do you not like it?” He asked. “It just came out.”

“Not many people willing to give the Rom of the Dark Crown Rodere a _pet_ name.” Rafael pointed out, though his tone made it clear it wasn’t a bad thing coming from Harry. “But if anyone _would_ get away with it, it would be the Rom’s lover.”

“That’s not a no.”

“That’s a, as long as you don’t call me something like, I don’t know, _Sugar Nipples_ in public.” Rafael tossed out one of the more ridiculous ideas that occurred to him while the majority of his processing abilities were currently still locked on Harry’s idea to test out both Rafael’s stamina and the bathroom’s massive tub in new and dirty ways. “I’ll be more than fine with it.”

“Ok, _Rafa_.” Harry teased, sending a sultry glance from the Rom to the Jacuzzi. “So, about that stamina…”

“I’m relatively certain you’re a demon sent to kill me.” Rafael’s smile made it clear he didn’t mind that at all, even if it was true, before setting down the glass on the countertop and swooping Harry up and over his shoulder to a shout of surprise.

Harry laughed, delighted, and smacked Rafael’s very fine and very naked ass as the Rom hauled him over to the jacuzzi in question.

“You love it.”

“You know, I’m starting to think you might be right about that.”

…

It was a loose-limbed and glowing with satisfaction Harry that sauntered into Sirius’s hospital room later that day after showing Rafael - several times - that a wizard could keep up with a wererat in _every_ way and finding out for himself that yes, Rafael _did_ taste as good as he looked.

Harry wasn’t a total bottom, he enjoyed giving as much as taking, but there was something about having a hung cock in his mouth as he made even the biggest, baddest tough guy melt into a pile of incoherent _goo_ that was a kind of power he relished when he was in the right mood.

As it turned out, having two hundred or so pounds of prime Latino wererat Rom spread out and begging on his silk coverlet - thank Merlin for cleaning charms otherwise Harry didn’t think even the best dry cleaner could’ve salvaged it after all the abuse they put it through - was _the right mood._

“That’s cruel and unusual punishment, pup.” Sirius complained good-naturedly as soon as he caught sight of Harry. The kid all-but-had _well-sexed_ written in 72-point bold Copperplate font branded on his forehead. “Going out and getting lucky while your poor, withering away godfather is stuck in the hospital.” He tsked, shaking his head forlornly. “Shame, shame.”

Harry snickered, in a good enough mood that he was more than willing to play along.

A tilt of his head towards the door had Sirius’s wererat guard - not one he recognized but nearly _screamed_ private protection - exiting, allowing Harry to pull the lone chair over to his bedside instead of sitting beside the door.

The guard - taller than Harry, probably about the same height as Sirius - gave Harry a considering glance out of dark eyes before nodding his equally dark head but didn’t say a word as he left the room.

“Doesn’t talk much that one.” Sirius commented as he took in the little exchange and filed it away. Looked like things were getting, heh, _serious_ with the Rom then. Well, the pup could’ve done a _hell_ of a lot worse from what he could tell, especially with the bits he’d managed to worm out of the younger guard earlier before he’d been relieved by tall-dark-and-silent. “Not much fun.”

Harry rolled his eyes at Sirius’s mock-pout.

“They’re not here to entertain you.” Harry pointed out. “They’re here to keep you _safe_ until I get the green-light from the docs to move you behind my wards and heal your mangy ass.”

Sirius weakly lifted his hands, his short bout of humor draining him of energy which was beyond frustrating.

He hadn’t even so significantly wounded since the Voldemort War and never without a qualified healer on hand to patch him up in a jiff.

Laying here and being _useless_ while they waited for him to heal up enough to risk potions was driving him bat-shit, especially with Harry out and running around and - if he knew anything about his pup - hunting for whatever fucking asshole decided that raising a pack of ghouls and then using him to attack a damn _wizard_ was a grand idea.

Maybe if Sirius was still alone, sure, he could see it especially if it’s the same special cunt that’s been picking off vampires.

If it hadn’t been for Harry, Sirius would be worm food and he knew it which did nothing but chafe no matter how often it seemed to happen.

He hoped that the Rom would help even the playing field and give Harry someone to lean on if only a little.

His pup had had to be the heroic badass far too often than was healthy.

And the epically _infuriating_ part about it to Sirius was that he was too damn _good_ at it and had the power to back it up when another wizard would have to retreat and regroup.

Harry could just keep fighting, keep pushing through, keep saving people, and it terrified Sirius down to his bones that one day it was going to kill him.

“You know you love me.” Sirius smiled faintly, then shot him a leer. “So...was it Jean-Claude who was showing you the, ah-hem, _perks_ of being his human servant that put that glow on you or did your alpha were decide to stamp his scent all over you.”

Harry snorted. “I’m not a piece of territory, Siri.” The very suggestion of it chafed against his mind and nerves like sandpaper. “They’re not playing tit-for-tat.”

“Ooh,” Sirius winked lavishly. “So there was tit involved hmm…?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“No, I’m Sirius.” He cackled gaily at the _look_ the never-tiring name pun got him. “But on a _serious_ note,” and again, this one more fond than frustrated on Harry’s end. “If anyone here is ridiculous, it’s the one that went and got hitched as a flight-or-fight response to me getting injured.”

Harry almost choked on air, leaning forward eyes bugging out and coughing as he stared at Sirius incredulously as the animagus lifted one hand and ticked off points.

“Magical bond, can’t be broken, with promises of loyalty and protection exchanged and a contract - verbal or otherwise - involved.” Sirius’s looked was exaggerated and arch but there was nothing teasing about his tone. “Sounds like a marriage minus the officiant and jewelry to me pup.”

“Oh _fuck,”_ Harry lowered his head into his hands, feeling a migraine going on.

“Yup.” Sirius popped the p with relish. Maybe he was a _little_ more irritated with his pup than he’d thought, but he couldn’t help but revel in schadenfreude as reality - and the ins-and-outs of wizarding culture - crashed down on the powerful little asshole like a ton of bricks. “Congratulations. In both our and _his_ cultures as soon as the two of you _seal the deal_ so to speak, you’re as good as married.” Sirius heaved a heavy sigh, feeling inexplicably tired all of a sudden. “Your ability pup to get yourself both in and out of the most dangerous, tense, fraught, or ridiculous of situations and run full-speed ahead is contrarily both entertaining and _supremely_ fucking frustrating kid.” He felt his eyes flicker close, exhaustion pressing down on him. “Good luck with Jean-Claude. You’ gon-na nee’ it…”

Between one moment and the next Sirius was asleep, leaving his godson to stare at the far wall and reel with shock.

He’d accidentally married a vampire in all-but-label.

Sirius was _never_ going to let him live this down.

He was suddenly, vastly, _supremely_ ecstatic that he’d left the portraits at Grimmauld Place.

The tongue lashing that _all_ of them would give him over this clusterfuck would have been worthy of an epic saga and likely last for _months._


	10. Chapter 10

**Ancient Bonds**

**Chapter Ten: Checkmate**

The hospital insisted on keeping Sirius for a week after his initial surgery, even if a few of the staff were snarky as hell over the constant presence of rotating guards.

Harry was there on a sporadic schedule for the sole purpose of making himself impossible to track by anyone who might be watching, but tended to spend the majority of his time at Sirius’s bedside, keeping watch but also keeping Sirius company.

And when the pain as well as the medication they used to manage it allowed, bending the cunning, vicious brain of the Auror with the second-highest kill count in the Voldemort War after only Mad-Eye Moody to Harry’s quest for bloody vengeance.

Vengeance that were his injuries less severe, Sirius would be more than capable of doling out himself, but even he could admit that even _with_ potions he would still be out of commission for too long for that to be feasible.

Harry’s habit of nearly camping out at St. Louis General and Jean-Claude staying safe and sound behind the wards at _Guilty Pleasures_ allowed him some much-needed distance as when he wasn’t plotting mayhem and murder with Sirius, he was trying to sort out just how he felt about accidentally falling into the equivalent of marriage to a vampire he barely knew.

Which was highly entertaining to Sirius.

That Harry had been fine binding himself to Jean-Claude for as long as he lived but the second Sirius slapped the proper - depending on how one looked at it - label on it he got all squirrelly would never _not_ be funny.

If the vampire in question knew about the dilemma Harry was torturing himself over he’d likely be far less amused, but neither of them had any intention of telling him until Harry figured out what he wanted to do about it - which at the moment was swinging strongly towards _nothing._

At least until they weren’t standing on the precipice of St. Louis going up in flames.

In the single week that Sirius had been in care, another two vampires had been killed - not counting Harry’s semi-execution of Valentine - both females and both highly placed in Nikolaos’s court: one who Harry had never met, and Seraphine who he most certainly _had._

Harry moved Sirius with a portkey and Rafael’s help to keep him stable on landing, tucking him safe and sound into the guest room he’d put together over the last few days.

Then the potions tyranny - to hear Sirius tell it - began.

Blood restoratives, general healing draughts now that the groundwork had begun, pain potions, even a dose of dreamless sleep.

Sirius took it all with an air of tolerance mixed with whinging, but being able to watch as he fell asleep for the first time without either pain or narcotics for the first time in a week it was more than worth it from Harry’s perspective.

Harry and Rafael slipped quietly out of the spare room, Harry setting a ward on the bed and room that would alert him if Sirius was in distress.

Then Rafael slipped a piece of paper out of his jean cut-offs and passed it over.

And the quiet atmosphere of having dodged a bullet shattered like so much glass under a baseball bat.

…

Harry read through the note once, twice, three times as the words struggled to make sense.

Because _nothing about it_ made sense.

“Is this real?” Harry asked in sheer disbelief, staring over at Rafael where he sat at his table as cool as a cucumber.

His disbelief was understandable.

Until Rafael had been passed that same note and cross-checked it with several other sources he hadn’t thought it possible either.

And yet, all word and sources said the same thing: Nikolaos had taken Jean-Claude.

“Very real, unfortunately.” Rafael answered sourly, more than a little bitter at the position this whole debacle with Nikolaos had put him and the Rodere in. “My rats have confirmed it: he’s there and under punishment for the ostensible crime of failing to find the culprit behind the murders.”

Harry scoffed, Rafael nodding in agreement.

No one with two brain cells to rub together would believe _that_ bit of tripe for a second.

“How’d they get him?” Harry asked the question that followed the train of thought. “He hasn’t even returned here or to the hospital since the night after the attack.”

Which had made Harry’s dodging Jean-Claude _much_ easier to manage, since there were entire worlds of information that were easy to hide over the phone, even when the vampire on the other end has a voice that’s a literal weapon at his command.

“Claudia,” one of Rafael’s lieutenants, “managed to get into _Guilty Pleasures_ early this morning and talked with Jason,” who’d written the note that one of Rafael’s full-rat spies had carried to the Rodere. “Apparently Robert snuck out of the club to meet up with his human girlfriend or fiance or whatever.”

Rafael’s sneer made his thoughts about that bit of stupidity more than clear.

That’s what you got though when vampires were turned for looks instead of personality: a fuck-dumb model-pretty coward who’d risk his maker and master over a bit of tail.

Rafael didn’t care _how much_ Robert swore he loved his woman, that was just _stupid._

Stupid enough that Jean-Claude hadn’t even bothered to make a command against leaving the club grounds, likely expecting that none of his people would risk it.

Somehow, Rafael didn’t believe that was an oversight the master vampire would be repeating anytime soon.

Harry’s groan and face-palm made his opinion of it more than clear.

“Fuck that was dumb.” He narrowed his eyes, thinking hard. “What’re the odds that someone from Nikolaos’s camp rolled Robert’s girlfriend to set the whole thing up?”

“Since he’s kinda infamous in the city for actually _having_ a girlfriend and not just a favored snack?” Rafael blinked, not having considered that angle but then he hadn’t known about the current situation long. And most of that time had been dealing with another angle of it entirely or helping Harry move Sirius. “I’d bet Vegas would give decent odds on it. So, Nikolaos and Janos take Robert captive, trade him for Jean-Claude because refusing would’ve been a massive loss of face, and then got back to the Circus with maybe a half-hour to spare before dawn and leaving a clusterfuck behind at the club. Aubrey’s holding things together from what Jason told Claudia but I don’t know how long we can count on that.”

Or on the likelihood of Aubrey _not_ tearing Robert to pieces for the betrayal, even if it occurred to the centuries-old vampire that he’d been manipulated into it.

Somehow, Rafael didn’t think that would _matter_ with the majority of Aubrey’s stability lately coming from leaning on Jean-Claude.

While Harry is mentally debating pros and cons of various steps he could take now that Jean-Claude is right in the thick of things, including trying to sleep so he could “visit” with the master vampire and get some idea of what they were dealing with now that Nikolaos had clearly had enough of waiting for payback after what Harry did to Valentine, Rafael was having an internal debate of his own.

Then he decided, _fuck it,_ Harry was important to him and it was information that would surely change the tactic the wizard decided on.

That Harry _wouldn’t_ do something in retaliation for Nikolaos’s latest temper tantrum never even crossed his mind.

“There’s something else.” Rafael glanced at the clock. “Something I’ve been working on with Jean-Claude that will hopefully minimize the risk of whatever action you decide to take.”

Harry glanced over, coming to rest his palms flat on the table and leaning towards his lover.

“I’m all ears.”

…

To look at Harry Potter was to have the word vibrant ring through your mind.

From the contrast of silver scars or black and red ink against bronzed skin, to the ink-black of his hair, to the vivid green of his eyes, Harry Potter was fashioned of bold, broad strokes of color. Quick to laugh and smile. Even quicker to temper when appropriately provoked. There was no one else Jean-Claude had met in all his centuries of existence who was so vividly _alive._

His godfather gave it a good shot, so perhaps it was a trait of their people.

What was the phrase?

Hard living and even harder loving?

They lived like many of those in preternatural society: with the knowledge that no matter how strong or powerful or seemingly immortal they might be, _any_ day may very well be their last and so determined to squeeze every last drop of _life_ from it while their hearts still beat.

Jean-Claude adored that about them both, one of the traits (along with the power) that had drawn him to the seemingly-odd Sirius Black in the first place when the wizard appeared out of thin-air and began peddling magical protections with a fake identity and rather excellent - but not perfect - forged papers.

What entertained him the _most_ about the pair of them, it had to be said, was how quick others were to take in their flashing white smiles and witty banter and summarily dismiss them as threats.

Truly, that buoyant joy of theirs, as honest as it was, was better than any long-practiced mask of serenity or placidity for hiding in plain sight than Jean-Claude had seen before on a non-vampire.

Were it not for his years of friendship with Sirius allowing him peeks at a hidden - and quite vicious, it was rather impressive - dark cruel streak, he would’ve been utterly unprepared for the depths of emotion he found himself privy to that like Harry’s power coiled just beneath the surface and just as well-controlled.

Harry’s mental fortifications _were_ impressive, allowing Jean-Claude not a hint of his thoughts or mental meanderings.

The heart, however, is not the same as the head and while not everything came through, there was still more that Jean-Claude was privy to unless he blocked his _petit monstre_ in turn.

Never would he have guessed that Harry carried a low level and _extremely_ well hidden strain of fear within him, nor just how _deeply_ he felt emotions.

Despite not being in the room, Harry being clearly taken aback - as was Jean-Claude - at the depth of their binding as master vampire and human servant and taking some time to come to terms with the marks which was a blessing in disguise as it likewise allowed Jean-Claude a chance to regain his equilibrium, he was coming to know when Harry was around certain people just by how his emotional tone changed when Jean-Claude was being attentive to their bond.

It no longer surprised him that Harry followed Sirius into what appeared to him to be exile, so fierce and strong and potent was the love and affection and loyalty he felt for him. Often there was amusement, exasperation, and even irritation as well. But more than anything else Harry’s bond to Sirius was clear and deeply familial in a way that Jean-Claude couldn’t relate to having never felt the same for another and certainly not in a platonic manner.

There was also a thread of mourning that Harry felt at times when he was with Sirius, one that Jean-Claude recognized only _too_ well for all that he didn’t understand the reasoning behind it coloring Harry’s emotional tone around his godfather.

The other that he’d come to know by Harry’s emotional barometer via the marks could only be the Rom as of everyone Harry had met thus far in St. Louis, none other made sense to Jean-Claude for Harry’s reactions to Reyes.

Not even Jean-Claude himself.

He wouldn’t call it love. From his perspective even muffled as it was by the distance between them, it wasn’t deep or enduring enough for that. But it was certainly filled with affection, enjoyment, and an intense strain of lust.

Lust that Harry had been using, albeit unknowingly, to feed Jean-Claude’s _ardeur._

Fed it well and often enough - and Jean-Claude would have to applaud the Rom’s stamina sometime, it certainly gave him hope that lovely Rafael might agree to a threesome in time - that he’d gathered enough power through both it and the marks itself to remain awake hours and hours after Burchard had tossed him into a cross-wired coffin on Nikolaos’s orders.

The irritation and disappointment he felt in Robert for falling for Nikolaos’s blatant manipulations had kept him buzzing for the confrontation that led to his current ignoble circumstances.

To the point that around mid-morning when he’d normally be dead for the day that he’d felt what he’d wager a hefty amount was the precise moment Harry knew.

Oh yes, his favorite human was a fierce one indeed, his fury sustaining Jean-Claude until his power drew nearer and nearer, strengthening him in turn though he kept from _pulling_ from his _petit sorcier_ until rescue appeared to be at hand.

No sense in weakening or distracting Harry at an inopportune moment as if he had his directions correct it seemed Harry and all his lovely incandescent rage wasn’t playing games with Nikolaos and had gone for the frontal assault.

Bold of him, but Jean-Claude was coming to expect nothing less.

To that end and feeling Harry less than a dozen yards away, he wasn’t surprised in the least when his coffin was ripped open.

Mildly surprised that it was his hired killer he’d secured the services of to help _handle_ the Nikolaos situation and not Burchard come to kill him to hopefully take out Harry as well or to use him as leverage against his _petit monstre_ ’s incandescent fury.

Anyone who thought the Ulfric had icy blue eyes had never met Edward, assassin, bounty hunter, and vampire executioner - on top of being a Federal Marshal under his only legal identity of Ted Forrester - in his assassin persona with all artifice stripped away giving _glacial_ new meaning.

Jean-Claude starkly appreciated men like Edward - and not just when they were retrieving him from captivity - as their non-existent moral codes and sociopathic tendencies made them _extremely_ easy to predict.

Edward might be the single most expensive person he kept on retainer - Harry’s fees for his ward-work on _Guilty Pleasures_ notwithstanding - but he was worth every penny.

Despite the fact that the man didn’t open his door for a contract under a hundred thousand dollars per mark.

Edward didn’t discriminate, equally capable and willing to kill men and monsters alike, and had a face that blended in nearly everywhere from his plain dishwater blond hair to his iced-down blue eyes to his affable - when needed - smile.

He had likely scared whichever hapless member of the Rodere charged with leading him through the tunnels senseless as weres and shifters tended to see the monsters hiding in men easier than everyone else.

Instincts weren’t to be underestimated when it came to lycanthropes.

“You’re late, _mon ami_.” Jean-Claude said idly, stepping gracefully out of the coffin in Nikolaos’s torture room and into the cavern filled with rows of Nikolaos’s closest supporters - but not her - taking in the carnage and chaos that Edward had seeded as he tore through the coffin room before finding and releasing Jean-Claude. He frowned as he saw Janos still possessed his head and heart...though given his line, he didn’t know if even that would kill him. “That one will need more care than others.” Jean-Claude informed his hired killer. “A rotter.”

Edward merely flicked his brows together for a moment - the equivalent of a full-out scowl from another man - then reached into his trench coat and retrieved several syringes filled with a silvery substance.

Silver nitrate: lethal to even the strongest master vampire in a high enough dosage.

Jean-Claude nodded, holding up three fingers in an estimate of what it would likely take given Janos’s strength.

Of Nikolaos’s closest court and loyalists, _he_ was one that Jean-Claude could neither afford to leave alone nor kill outright himself as his maker was rumored to be Morte d’Amour himself.

One _did not_ tangle with one of the older members of the Council if it could be at all avoided.

Jean-Claude would vastly prefer to infuriate the likes of Padma, the Master of Beasts, before even mildly irritating those of Morte d’Amour, the Traveler, or gods-forbid the Mother of Darkness herself.

“Might want to join your pet in the other room,” Edward told him gruffly after Jean-Claude finished marking which coffins he wanted _taken care of_ by the assassin who would disappear well before nightfall and leave the rest at sea as to what had befallen their comrades.

Everyone would _assume_ that Jean-Claude and/or Harry had affected their end, but there would be no _proof_ of their involvement and in the delicate and deadly dance that was vampire politics that was a difference that mattered a great deal.

Jean-Claude strode out of Nikolaos’s coffin room and into the main chamber of the underground warren that made up the Master of the City’s court, brows arching high at the sight that met his eyes.

“Ah, _mon petit sorcier.”_ Jean-Claude took in an unneeded breath, catching the scent of many living bodies from the crumpled forms of the weres piled up just inside the door, and above everything else: fire. “You _do_ give most excellent gifts.”

Harry smirked where he was lounging indolently in a gaudy and grandiose throne that was carved of pure white marble and set with precious aquamarines and sapphires - some the size of a man’s fist. He had his head resting on his propped up left hand, one leg swung over the opposite arm, and his wand twirling like a baton in his right hand. And in front of the throne’s dais, lined up like supplicants, were Nikoloas, Burchard, and the Master’s pet necromancer, each contained and terrified inside their own rings of what looked to Jean-Claude like living fire.

Jean-Claude appreciated the sight his little monster made as he lounged draped head-to-toe in silk: fine silk trousers in an endless black to match his hair with a similar sheen, black belt and boots made of a leather Jean-Claude had never seen worn by anyone but Harry and Sirius, sheer white silk shirt that draped and flaunted more than it concealed like a bygone poet open at the neck to reveal Jean-Claude’s bite mark that had healed - Harry must heal faster than a normal human - to a silver half-moon scar.

Even Harry’s tattoos seemed to have shifted - the flames at least - showing off a vicious scarring on Harry’s right shoulder that was normally not hidden but certainly camouflaged by his tattoos or clothes.

He looked every _inch_ the dangerous sorcerer and human servant that he was, all artifice of soft and concealing clothes and affable, _youthful_ masks stripped away, down to the sword hanging from his belt and the silver knife Jean-Claude could smell hidden in his left boot.

Several melted pools of metal Jean-Claude would bet had once been firearms sat in molten globs adjacent to the necromancer’s fiery prison, every now and then twitching in not-so-idle threat.

It was far too quiet, was the first thing Jean-Claude noticed other than the scene itself, especially since he could _see_ both Nikolaos and the necromancer mouthing words or trying to scream but no sound was coming forth.

Though with the banded steel door that had been blown to pieces, it was easy to see how Harry had “distracted” Nikolaos and the guards while Edward crept his way inside.

That the pile of guards was still breathing from what Jean-Claude could tell was honestly more impressive than the flaming prisons, as before seeing it for himself he would not have thought Harry had such mercy in him, especially for those that worked for his enemy.

“It wasn’t exactly a fair fight.” Harry noted drily, flicking his wand and sorting the pile of unconscious guards into piles based on how they felt to his magical sight and senses which was in high gear as he studied the bonds his prisoners carried. “I mean,” he cocked his head as Jean-Claude sashayed up to him and perched on the arm of Nikolaos’s throne as he sat up. “Two wererats, a werehyena, and a dozen muggles?” He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “And having the weres on the _doors?_ Please. A Stunning Spell and some levitation and I had the run of the place.” He smiled smugly at the still-screaming and silenced doll-faced vampire. “Now if she had a dozen weres, or even a couple of _hidden_ guards, then I might’ve had problems.”

“Good to know.” Jean-Claude sent an amused glance down at the top of his cocky little monster’s head. Surprise, it seemed, was the best weapon _against_ Harry anyone had but even then wasn’t a sure thing as the ghouls he’d torched could attest. “If you would, _mon petit sorcier.”_ Jean-Claude motioned elegantly to their prisoners.

Harry stood, eyes focused, then he smiled viciously.

Zachary who’d gone still as the sorcerer - he _had_ to be a sorcerer no mere witch commanded such magics - stepped right up to his flaming prison and then _through_ the flames without his clothes being so much as kissed by the smokeless fire.

Jean-Claude didn’t bother taking Harry’s place on the throne. It was far too ostentatious and gaudy for his liking. Instead he merely crossed his legs at the knee and kept his perch on the arm of it, watching with avid eyes as his bonded and marked _petit monstre_ worked his very unique form of magic.

He wondered if perhaps there was a way to protect a _person_ against fire as there is a building with Harry’s command of flames?

Or perhaps not, Sirius had certainly never showed such a proclivity in the past.

But as Jean-Claude had come to know, what either of them _showed_ did not correlate to their actual _ability_ with any perfect means of prediction.

Harry chuckled darkly as Zachary - stripped of his weapons and unable to flee or call out - backed as far away from Harry as he could without stepping into the fire that threatened to char him in an instant with how fast it had reduced his guns and knife to slag.

“You’re frightened.” Harry grinned wickedly. _“Good,_ ” he told him with relish. “You should be. You see I inherited a rather,” he clucked his tongue, thinking of the precise wording he wanted to use. “ _Troublesome_ personality trait from my mother. Would you care to guess what it is?” He widened his eyes in mock surprise as Zachary rapidly shook his head. “I am rather embarrassingly prone to being unforgiving. One might even say it’s my fatal flaw: the ability to hold a grudge and act out of spite. On the other hand,” his tone turned dark instead of falsely cheerful. “It’s also saved my life in the past. Win some, lose some I suppose.” He clapped his hands together around his wand. “Now!”

Zachary jumped then tried to huddle into himself, one hand going up to clutch at something hidden by his shirt.

A necklace of some fashion that _stank_ of corrupted magic.

The _exact same magic_ that he’d felt piloting the ghouls that had attacked him and Sirius.

Harry didn’t know its purpose. To be frank, he didn’t give a damn. Only that it was there, it was the magical mark of the necromancer that nearly killed Sirius, and he’d found his target after all.

“You must either be quite the smart and cunning one, managing to slaughter the Master’s vampires while living under her nose and serving in her court.”

Jean-Claude arched his brows at that, impressed despite himself that the weedy looking man had managed such a thing as both Nikolaos and Burchard whipped their heads around from staring at Jean-Claude in various degrees of loathing and hatred to looking truly venomous at the pair of magic users.

Ah, if looks could kill.

“Or,” and Jean-Claude did so enjoy Harry’s irreverence. “Nikolaos is just _that_ stupid, jury’s still out.” Harry shrugged. “Probably both with a big ol’ helping of arrogance and complacency in her own power and ability to inspire fear.” He leaned forward as if imparting a secret and mock-whispered: “I don’t really _care.”_

“T-then,” Zachary was shocked to see the sorcerer flick his... _magic wand?_ Which was a step into the absurd even for him and he was a vaudun practitioner and necromancer. “What-why-”

“Why am I doing this?” Harry asked in clear amusement that didn’t betray an ounce of his barely-banked rage. “Wow. You _really_ don’t know who you’re fucking with do you? Sirius is my blood-oathed _godfather_ you stupid fucking twat!” Harry roared, the flames under his command leaping higher in response to his fury. “And _you_ tried to slaughter him. Tear him to pieces with your little _pets._ And you have the utter _cheek_ to ask why I’m doing this? Why I’m here?” He scoffed, throwing up his hands in sheer exasperation. “I take it back: Nikolaos must _really_ be that idiotic and arrogant because _you_ bucko are as dumb as a sack of flobberworms!”

More than one of his audience mouthed _flobberworms_ in confusion for all that they understood the implication nonetheless.

Reaching the end of his tether and genuinely fearing that it would snap before he had a chance to take care of a bit of clean-up, Harry slashed his wand and put Zachary into a body bind before tucking his wand away in preference for his silver athame.

Zachary’s eyes shut tight in terror and an acrid stench of urine cut through the air, picked up by both of the vampires and Harry alike.

Nikolaos sneered at his cowardice as she crossed her arms over her flat chest.

When she got her hands on Jean-Claude or his little pet witch, she would show them _all_ the meaning of fear.

A swift - and clearly practiced which Jean-Claude filed away for future consideration - slash of the silver blade opened a deep gash in Zachary’s face.

And then the vampires and Burchard became honestly stymied.

Blood didn’t _act like that_ and _fresh_ blood certainly didn’t smell of rot nor show signs of being coagulated.

Harry hummed under his breath then let out a carrying whistle as he saw the state of the blood as his power pulled it from the wound and collected it in perfect little spheres that balanced on the edge of his blade.

“Ah, I see.” Harry noted, and he did at last, the reasoning behind the killings - even the attempt at Sirius - finally becoming clear. “That necklace of yours that stinks of corruption is a talisman, yes? The focus of whatever nasty little ritual you’re using to keep you,” he pursed his lips. “Well, I wouldn’t call it _alive_ by any means but…” He shrugged.

Having the answer was all fine and dandy but given the givens it didn’t really _matter_ anymore beyond what information he could give to Sirius to feed to RPIT to get the cases closed so Storr and his team will stop sniffing around the Riverfront.

A spell that was breathed more than spoken had the blood on his blade flying through the air - up and over the flames, across the massive cavern, and out into the tunnels.

“There,” Harry nodded, satisfied that there wouldn’t be any _loose ends_ left to ravage the city once Zachary was disposed of. “ _That_ will take care of our little ghoul infestation, at least the ones connected to _you_ anyway.”

“Why not break the bonds, _mon petit sorcier?”_ Jean-Claude asked as Harry prowled closer to the hapless necromancer who was whimpering and shivering in terror. What a magnificent little monster he was. And he was _his._

“I don’t fancy having a pack of ghouls running around the city without someone to keep a leash on them.” Harry said, as a wordless spell had his shirt splitting down the center and falling off of him in a smooth, elegant movement that he was certain from what he could feel of Jean-Claude that the vampire approved of heartily. “I’m _right pissed off_ not irresponsible.”

As he spoke, Jean-Claude had his impression of Harry’s flame tattoos confirmed as one - a great plumed serpent - seemed to come to life and twined down Harry’s arm before _leaping_ out from his wrist, the tail still coiled around his right wrist, and Harry grasping the serpent made of living flame that had taken on the hallmarks of true flame with shades of white and blue and purple sparking off of the plume or edging its great scales.

The serpent reared up, coiling over and over until it almost brushed the ceiling, eyes of flame meeting those of emerald edged in an eerie green that Jean-Claude recognized from their marking.

Then Harry merely _nodded_ and the serpent hissed, a sound fit to rattle down to Jean-Claude’s bones such was the size of it, and it _lunged_ down, hitting the necromancer’s fiery prison with the roar of a raging wildfire and nearly deafening him for long moments as the flash of the fire had him lifting his arm and looking away to protect his vision.

When he looked back, it was to a sight that would say with him for much of his remaining years: Harry standing alone, a pillar of serenity, without a mark on him and seemingly-innocuous tattoos of flame coiling up and down his arms. There were more scars and tattoos on his lean back, the curve of one circling up from what had to have been nearly a killing blow from a great beast with how it lined up with those on his shoulders. A puncture mark graced his bicep, a slash just below his elbow. Whatever similarity there was between Sirius and his godson in some of their tattoos, it was clearly _Harry_ who had thus far lived a life of significant physical danger.

And survived.

The flame tattoos shifted and cleverly drew the eye away from the scars, then Harry turned and sauntered around Nikolaos’s prison, Zachary’s having vanished with the necromancer in the purifying flames of _Fiendfyre._

He rubbed his jaw, considering options, then glanced at Jean-Claude before using his Occlumency and giving a polite _knock_ on the door guarding their bond.

Jean-Claude didn’t show any of the surprise on his face that Harry knew he felt as Harry unlocked and opened their mental connection.

_How do you want to handle them?_ Harry asked, Jean-Claude’s eyes going dark with concentration before he answered, having never done such a thing while awake before.

_Nikolaos will still out match me in strength. Burchard must be first._

Harry sighed, crouching and replacing his knife in his boot then turning his wrist to have the newer - from his perspective - of his two wands sliding into his hand.

Turning to face Burchard in full, the two human servants stared each other down, Harry seeing nothing but frustrated acceptance in the older male’s stern face and blank gaze.

The other man had likely known from the moment Harry summoned his semi-automatic rifle after tearing through the guards like a bulldozer through tinfoil that this was going to be his end. Harry and Jean-Claude might be capable of mercy, but no one was merciful - if they were wise - when it came to an enemy that would kill them as soon as look at them. Nikolaos’s attempt to coerce and demand the pair of wizards into her court and service was the beginning of her end.

Or perhaps it had happened even further in the past than that, when she’d offered Jean-Claude a place in her territory after he was smuggled out of Europe at the end of his term of servitude to the Council.

Either way, Burchard’s only hope at the moment was for a quick death rather than be forced to suffer the pain of having his bond to Nikolaos being stripped from him.

As if he’d plucked the thoughts straight from within his mind, he saw through the flames as the wizard nodded, something like respect dawning in his eyes.

And then all he saw was green.

And all he felt was peace.

…

Jean-Claude _probably_ took far too much pleasure in watching Nikolaos writhe and shriek and collapse from the agony of having Burchard torn from her.

Now that he knew the depths of the bond the marks forged for himself, he had an empathy for those vampires who are forced to experience having such an integral part of themselves torn away.

But, this was Nikolaos.

Pity and empathy were weaknesses of victors he could not _afford_ in the present but in the future when reverie would harm no one.

A wave of Harry’s hand - his wand, or at least that’s what Jean-Claude was presuming it was having seen Sirius perform magic with his own more often than not while Harry was the opposite, having been hidden away once more - had the last two rings of flame snuffing out.

And then Jean-Claude was _moving_ and with a single leap had Nikolaos pinned to the stone cavern floor, controlling her with ease due to her weakened state with one hand gripping her tiny, underdeveloped neck and a knee planted onto her sternum.

“You thought a mere _day_ of imprisonment would be enough to diminish me, _me?”_ He growled, the innate predator that _every_ vampire was at heart coming roaring to the forefront. He scoffed derisively. “You have _forgotten_ your history, _Mistress._ _Years_ would not have been enough. I served the _Council_ as their pet and whore and whipping boy for a _century_ little girl.” He hissed, leaning down and his eyes flaring with the same neon green fire as Harry’s when he’d called down the flame serpent. “ _Nothing_ you could do to me would have _ever_ touched such torment as they are capable of. Underestimating me was foolish. Underestimating me _and_ trying to degrade me?” His smile was _all_ teeth and fangs. “Your end. You forgot yourself, _Mistress_ , when others failed to retaliate immediately as you yourself do. We are _immortal._ We can _wait.”_

With a single tearing heave, his piece said, Jean-Claude tore Nikolaos’s pretty head from her dainty shoulders before tossing it away and plunging his hand elbow-deep into her chest and sending her heart flying after it.

All the while Harry simply watched, arms folded across his chest, and filing away everything Jean-Claude had clearly needed to get off his chest, his impression of the master vampire - and now the new Master of the City by right of conquest - as the ultimate survivor reinforced after hearing some of his prior trials from his own lips.

“Now what?” Harry asked - and honestly even with his attempt to learn about this new world, he didn’t have a bloody clue.

Jean-Claude gave a little laugh, wiping off his bloody hands on Harry’s discarded silk shirt before tossing it to cover the macabre display of Nikolaos’s torn-apart body.

“Now the real work begins.”

Harry sighed.

He’d been afraid he would say something like that.

Damn it.

...

Harry waited while Jean-Claude spoke softly with the person that Harry knew of but hadn’t actually _seen_ who’d been charged with infiltrating Nikolaos’s stronghold while Harry blasted down the front door.

Timing had been an issue, Harry having to rely on Rafael to text him as soon as the man was taken as far as the wererats were able to go without drawing attention.

But when Harry didn’t have to worry about collateral damage, as the hapless guards had discovered even the shifters, he was unquestionably and nearly impossibly hard to defeat.

Without a team to protect or innocents to get hurt in the backlash, Harry had been free to let his magic run wild and knock out anyone and everyone in his way.

Some of them - if Jean-Claude allowed them to live - would likely have to hit up the hospital for a cracked skull since Harry wasn’t being gentle or worrying about keeping them from hitting the ground at speed once his spells hit them.

None of them however were dead - for now - and most people Harry knew would sooner take a concussion than be burned alive like Zachary or have their heads torn off like Nikolaos.

“ _Mon petit sorcier,”_ Jean-Claude came back over to his side where Harry was leaning once more on Nikolaos’s throne and waiting for the next step.

He’d done his part, gotten his pound of flesh for Sirius’s attack, now came the politics.

And that was Jean-Claude’s show, Harry just around for back up as it should be.

“Business handled?” Harry asked, pushing off the throne and taking Jean-Claude’s offered hand.

If he hadn’t felt it for himself through the bond that was still wide open - Harry might have a _smidgen_ of guilt over keeping it shut when it led to Jean-Claude’s capture - he wouldn’t have believed that Jean-Claude was as calm and tranquil as he appeared.

With at least an hour until dusk and as far as Harry was aware the master vampire having not rested _at all_ during the day, he also should be unconscious somewhere.

That bit at least he could blame on himself.

Or his magic anyway, which had taken to Jean-Claude bond with an alacrity that would be (and still kinda was) alarming if it hadn’t been for Sirius pointing out the similarities it bore to a wizarding marriage bond.

His type of magic had been primed by literal _countless generations_ of his ancestor’s bonds to accept and thrive and cling to bonds with another magical being.

And say what one liked about vampires, they _were_ a magical species.

Then there was the messy bit about reciprocal blood bonds and how his being a blood mage affected _those_ but that was a thought he definitely didn’t want leaking through the bond to Jean-Claude’s mind so he was determined to ignore it as long as humanly possible.

All of which boiled down to the fact that as long as Harry’s magical core was happy and thriving, Jean-Claude could likely simply choose to ignore the vampiric need to die for the day indefinitely.

If _that_ wasn’t a wordless display of the master vampire’s power he didn’t know what was.

“For the moment, _oui._ ” Jean-Claude answered openly, hiding nothing about his arrangements with Edward from Harry, sending the thought along their mental connection of how the assassin would be taking a few of the more _problematic_ Nikolaos loyalists and dumping them to be found - or not - far from the city. Such as Janos. 

Tragic murders, one and all, that would go unsolved. Pity. But as they were not present for the change in power in St. Louis, Jean-Claude could and _would not_ be expected to do anything about it or have knowledge of their fates.

He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the decor of the cavern - and not the cooling bodies of Nikolaos and Burchard - especially the gaudy throne.

Nikolaos’s taste - or lack thereof - had always grated on him.

A thought which Harry must have caught if the amused smile he sent him over his shoulder was any sign as his wand made a reappearance.

Jean-Claude slotted himself into Harry’s back, arms wrapping around his shoulders from behind as Harry lifted his wand like a conductor and sent softly chanted spells - some of which were Latin or Greek that he recognized the meaning of but others in languages he did not speak in the slightest and could only guess at - streams of colors spinning and sweeping and flying around the cavern and out into the hall beyond.

“I believe,” Harry said before he got started, merely placing the limp forms of the guards into conjured handcuffs or heavy shackles and lining them up against the rock walls. “That a change in decor is in order, don’t you?”

“Ah, but you are marvelous, _mon petit monstre.”_ Jean-Claude sighed in pleasure as he watched his favorite human’s magic at work. “Truly a _tresor.”_

There they stood for the better part of an hour, bodies rapidly cooling below them, with Jean-Claude whispering suggestions into Harry’s ear and his little monster of a wizard bringing them to life.

…

Rafael cocked his head in surprise as he entered the main chamber of Nikolaos’s lair to find Jean-Claude ensconced in state in a chair - French, undoubtedly, Louis XIII or Louis XIV if his office was any sign - that most certainly _wasn’t_ Nikolaos’s throne.

Though given that her headless body, the head resting on her slipper-shod feet with a shocked expression frozen upon it and her heart in her hands, was propped at the foot of the dais with a peacefully-dead Burchard next to her that wasn’t much of a surprise - the Jean-Claude part at least.

He’d seen before how fast Harry could work with his magic but this was the first time Rafael had seen such a massive, large-scale change occur in a matter of hours.

The hallways leading from the lair’s entrance at the Circus above were the first clue.

Instead of dark and barely-lit with a sense of grime that covered everything, they were plastered white with warm lighting from oiled-bronzed sconces holding flames that glowed but didn’t burn - a touch of Harry’s taste that he was a bit surprised to see in what would indubitably be turning into Jean-Claude’s stronghold.

Maybe the master vampire wasn’t just trying to spin gold out of bullshit when he promised Harry a partnership if the little hints of Harry’s taste remained after Jean-Claude started really moving in and taking over the Circus and the bastion of the Master of the City below it.

Whether that happened or not, Rafael _was_ certain that the Circus at least and those who worked there would soon find themselves thriving.

Jean-Claude was many things but a poor businessman he was _not,_ as _Guilty Pleasures_ and his other holdings could give testament to.

There hadn’t been any scent of fresh blood in the halls, which was a relief as part of the deal Rafael had been forced to make with Nikolaos when she failed to bind him as her animal to call gave her a pair of the wererats every day to help guard the daytime spaces of her court.

The dais and floor of the main cavern were still stone but rather than the rough hewn appearance from before they were smooth and glossy while the roof and walls had been paneled in a white painted wood that smelled like cedar under the paint to his alpha’s sense of smell.

Jean-Claude certainly didn’t look like he’d been a captive only a few hours before in his (as always) plastered-on leather pants, this pair in pristine white, with a matching silk and lace shirt in that flowy-French cavalier fashion that he wore almost constantly. His hair was as black and bouncy as ever with his curls tumbling down to his shoulders, and his white leather boots didn’t have so much as a fleck of blood on them. But his scent didn’t lie: Harry hadn’t been the one to decapitate Nikolaos and tear out her heart, that was _all_ Jean-Claude.

Rafael could smell it on both of them: Nikolaos and Jean-Claude, his scent on her head and chest, her blood on his hands.

Under it all: the bodies of the prisoners waiting for judgement or release, the corpses, the blood, the fear, Rafael could still pick up that mercurial scent of magic and blood and fire and that ephemeral _something else_ that always eluded him that meant _Harry_ to him and probably always would.

“Welcome, Rom of the Dark Crown Rodere.” Jean-Claude said formally to set the proper tone.

The need for such being one of the reasons Harry had excused himself to work his magic - literally - on the private suite that Jean-Claude had pointed out as belonging to Nikolaos and Burchard.

Though saying that it _belonged_ to Burchard was an overstatement, given that of the lavish and large half-dozen underground chambers that housed it, only the smallest had any _hint_ of the human servant's tenancy.

More and more, Jean-Claude truly was starting to adopt Harry’s opinion of the once-Master: Nikolaos was a fool and an idiot with it.

Still, in a society and culture predicated on brute strength, even foolish idiots could go far.

“Congratulations on your ascendancy as Master of the City, Master Jean-Claude.” Rafael responded by rote. “I have come to renegotiate the terms of the Rodere’s contract with the Master’s court.”

“But of course, Rom Reyes.” Jean-Claude nodded regally then waved to the chair that was positioned before the dais for those he liked to sit while handling this traditional but ungainly bit of bureaucracy surrounding a new Master of the City rising. “Let us negotiate.”

It was only a start.

Jean-Claude had an entire city - and then some, the territory afforded to the Master of St. Louis was unwieldy - of vampires to blood-oath into his service, a quartet of shifter groups to negotiate with plus several solo shifters to meet, and a nascent bond with his human servant to navigate. A human servant who was also dating the Dark Crown Rom.

He could hardly _wait_ to start consolidating his power base.

Still, appearances must be maintained.

Traditions and politics.

Such timely encumbrances.

Though now, thanks to Harry, Jean-Claude truly felt that he had all the time in the world to start as he meant to go on and take his first real _step_ into securing his freedom from the shadow of the Council.

And so he began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update will be quite short as it is an epilogue to set up the next story coming in around 400 words, so please be aware of that.


	11. Epilogue

**Ancient Bonds**

**Epilogue: Thronnos Rokke**

“Master Jean-Claude,” Aubrey moved smoothly into sight of where the new Master of St. Louis was enjoying a respite from negotiations with were clans and blood-oathing his new responsibility of almost ten thousand vampires who’d chosen to remain in his territory instead of taking their chances elsewhere.

Humans would riot if they knew how numerous vampires were, especially in those areas welcoming of them such as St. Louis, as some accounts suggest as many as one vampire for every three humans existed worldwide. Many of those were likely young, less than a century old, as of all the vampires in the world, perhaps half made lived to see their second century. Of those, perhaps half or a third again will rise to become master vampires let alone so high a position as the Master of the City.

And over them all presided the handful of Masters of the Vampire Council and the Mother of Darkness.

The new Master of St. Louis had his human servant - the main reason why Aubrey had stayed loyal to Jean-Claude when it seemed the Frenchman’s gambit to unseat Nikolaos might have failed thanks to Robert’s foolishness - with him, the two talking softly amongst themselves as Jean-Claude encouraged his bonded to try the various blackberry treats one of the wererats had gone out to retrieve. There were other foods spread out on the table in the Master’s new rooms in the caverns beneath the Circus of the Damned. Aubrey had to acknowledge that the rats had a familiarity with the young wizard that none but his godfather and Jean-Claude himself had managed to forge or had already existed prior to Harry Potter moving to the city. Many of the foods seemed strange to Aubrey, but given that he hadn’t had solid food since the late 1300’s, that was more than understandable.

“The Ulfric of the Thronnos Rokke pack has arrived,” Aubrey hesitated as Harry seemed to perk up at that. “He is without his Lupa, though he has brought both Jason and Stephen with him along with others, including several submissives of the pack and the majority of the pack leadership.”

A leadership that was all alpha werewolves, even if a couple of them were new from what Aubrey understood of the pack's hierarchy.

The differential between a dominant and a submissive werewolf - or a were in general - wasn’t a matter of power as that between a master and regular vampire but it was there in scent nonetheless. Unless the dominant was also an alpha, then that was another story. In all his years, Aubrey didn’t think he’d heard of an alpha submissive, but given that he’d never heard of a witch accomplishing _ever_ many of the things Harry had done in a matter of hours or less, he wasn’t as quick to discount such idle fancies as he might have been before meeting the green eyed wizard.

Harry and Jean-Claude shared a look and then rose.

The day had long since passed into night, filled to brimming with politics and formality with almost no time to address personal issues beyond Jean-Claude taking a moment to ask after Sirius’s state.

That Marcus had come himself and _without_ his mate…

Well, it didn’t imply anything _good_ regarding the state of the pack to say the least.

An especially troublesome turn of events on the dawn of Jean-Claude’s dominion over St. Louis as the wolves were his animal to call.

Not that it mattered.

Whatever the problem, whatever the issue, to protect what was _theirs_ both of them were more than ready to handle it.

And the devil help whoever got in their way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here ends Ancient Bonds, with the first chapter of Honor Bound coming in approximately 12 hours due to server maintenance knocking my update schedule a bit screwey for the end of the week. Then Ch. 2 of Honor Bound will update on Saturday as previously planned.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Facebook here: https://www.facebook.com/sif.shadowheart
> 
> I also have an album dedicated to this series with casting and reference pictures for most of the characters on my facebook, the direct link is here: https://www.facebook.com/media/set?set=a.1135334756817353&type=3


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